I’m 18 years old and I still see my pediatrician. In the past, my mother has taken me to that yearly appointment. As a child, most of my anxiety attached to doctors’ appointments was concentrated around the procedures that took place before I even entered the exam room. 

Measuring my height was always the fun part. I’d step onto the platform of the stadiometer, standing tall and proud, eagerly awaiting the verdict. Welcome to this year’s round of Is Ketaki Still Growing? When you’re a girl who stood 5 feet and 9 ½ inches tall at age 15, the answer to this question is something everyone wants to know. After a certain point, the verdict was consistently “no,” and I’d step off the stand knowing that the weighing scale awaited me. 

If the nurse neglected to announce this result, my mother would, without fail, ask “And what was that?” After taking my blood pressure, the nurse would hand over the mental health form. My mother looked over my shoulder as I circled every “No” and every “1” on the scales from 1 to 5. These actions were a product of muscle memory. The nurse would then usher me into an exam room. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

My mother would tell me that I need to start working out again as the doctor arrives with my medical history and the results that the nurses just collected. “You’ve finally stopped growing! And your BMI falls right in the healthy range.” It’s an odd position to find yourself in, wondering who to trust. Science, or your own mother? A strategically color-coded graph, or the woman who raised you? Which axiom to live by: “Science Doesn’t Lie” or “Mom Knows Best”?

At my most recent appointment, I signed a form that put me in charge of my own health. I was 18 years old, which means something, depending on who you ask. In the past, my doctor would ask if I wanted my mother to stay or leave the room. My mother’s eyes would shift towards me. “I don’t really care,” I’d say. My doctor would hesitate. The decision was still mine. “She can stay.” However, at my most recent appointment, this option wasn’t presented. It was just me.

My doctor checked my reflexes and looked inside my ears, examined my spine and investigated my tongue. She freely discussed birth control and sexual health before asking the obligatory questions regarding my extracurriculars and social life. I answered no more honestly than before. My mother’s words echoed in the back of my mind. “Being on birth control isn’t an excuse to do whatever you want.”

I thank my doctor before she leaves, and wait for the nurse to return to administer my shot. I’ve never been afraid of needles. Afterwards, the nurse protects the site with a Donald Duck band-aid, and we head home. 

Process Notes:

At first, I wasn’t sure if I really had a specific doctors’ visit or other experience tied to STEM which was a blatant display of my social issue. However, after reflecting on my experiences with going to the doctor in general, I found that the feelings I’ve been exploring with regards to gender inequality were maybe present in subtle ways. I tried to focus on telling these “stories” as I remembered them, and I think that in the end, writing with this goal at the forefront of my mind rather than with the goal of actively writing about a social issue may have helped with “showing” rather than “telling.” I hope that my writing effectively commented on beauty standards, sexuality/”slut-shaming,” and other related issues that can surface in a medical setting. I also wanted to explore a mother-daughter relationship with regards to these issues as an added layer of complexity.