COURTNEY

When I was three, I had a VCUG (test to diagnose VUR) as a result of a kidney infection that needed medical care. Unlike many who underwent VCUGs, I did not have VUR. My VCUG was completely unnecessary, and I know for a fact that I would be much better off today if I had not had it.

Even before I had the VCUG, I was told that I was a fairly private kid. I would tell family members that “I needed privacy” to use that bathroom while I was being potty trained. I think even at that young age, I already experienced some shame and embarrassment about that part of my body due to my family culture, so I was already hesitant to share when I needed to use the bathroom, and I feel fairly certain that holding it for too long out of fear was what caused my infection in the first place.

I’m sharing this because I feel that under these circumstances, the VCUG was the worst possible thing they could have put me through. It reinforced that there was indeed something dark and shameful and embarrassing about that part of my body. What they did to me that day was my worst fear, a terror that I couldn’t have even imagined or conceived of.

I have fragmented memories from that time and from the day of the procedure. I remember sitting in a highchair while my parents desperately tried to convince me to drink water - I didn’t want to. They then took me out of the chair and buckled me into my car seat. I remember crying as the car backed down the driveway. I think I remember my parents telling me they were taking me to the doctor.

I remember walking around what I thought was the hospital with my parents, and having to pee into a cup multiple times, which felt embarrassing - they were probably trying to see if I still had an infection, but I don’t know.

I remember waiting in the room with my mom for what felt like forever, and she was drawing on a napkin to keep me occupied.

My next memory is being set on a table and made to lie down. It felt like a sudden ambush where all of these strangers with gloves converged on me, grabbing my limbs roughly and then pulling down my pants, and then underwear. I distinctly remember watching them take my underwear - that memory is burned into my brain and would pop up in my mind to haunt me for the rest of my childhood and into adulthood.

I had no idea what was happening, but I knew that it hurt, so I screamed and fought, but they were too strong. I remember feeling terrified and desperate - I hated “shots,” and it felt like they were putting needles into me everywhere, and especially “down there,” where I believed was supposed to be private.

It is such a terrible feeling to face something so painful and so humiliating and try your hardest to make it stop, and to have your strongest efforts completely fail - and to have your parents watch and do nothing.

I felt so embarrassed and humiliated. My dad was in the room but my mom couldn’t be there because she was pregnant, so she had to watch from behind a window. I remember my dad trying to comfort me, and to this day, my dad taking the tone he took while trying to comfort me that day makes me feel visceral disgust.

I don’t remember the rest of the procedure, but I remember my dad holding me in a dark, cold parking lot while I sob-hiccuped uncontrollably afterward. I remember that it was evening and how bright the lights in the parking lot were.

I went on to be a highly anxious and sensitive child. I was terrified of being separated from my mom and remember grabbing onto her leg as if my life depended on it on my first day of preschool. She tried to walk away but I had my arms and legs wrapped around one of her legs, screaming and crying, determined not to let her leave me alone, but in the end, she did.

Looking back, I absolutely had signs of childhood sexual abuse. I won’t go into detail, but some of my thoughts and actions while I played alone around preschool age were not normal for a mentally healthy child.

For the longest time, I believed that what had happened to me was a punishment for not drinking enough water, and that doctors could participate in punishing kids if they misbehaved enough. I was terrified of getting in trouble and of authority figures other than my parents - especially teachers. I was always weirdly fascinated with rules and punishments because I thought, “What if the most severe punishment is what happened to me back then?”

I struggled with a lot of anxiety in school and was always the most “well-behaved” kid in class to the point that it became a big part of my identity. In reality, that meant I never spoke up and always followed directions. I associated getting in trouble and punishments with humiliation, and I was so scared of anything that could result in getting into trouble.

I also had extreme difficulty saying “no” or setting boundaries, because I thought that was somehow bad and that being difficult might result in getting punished. I am incredibly lucky that I was never solicited by an abusive adult after that, because I know for a fact - and remember feeling back then - that if anyone tried anything, I wouldn’t be able to stand up for myself and would have to let it happen. I already knew deep down that I would be helpless.

I also had a lot of sensory issues that I attribute to the VCUG interfering with my ability to process and tolerate distress or stressors. I couldn’t stand the feeling of sock seams, pants, or most shoes, and would experience meltdowns related to these feelings. I also developed misophonia which has gotten worse the older I get, and which still impacts my relationships to this day.

I started seeing a therapist around age 10, who tried to teach me about coping with anxiety. I think it helped a small amount for a while, but one of the key lessons I took away from therapy from an early age was actually harmful. It was that I just experience more anxiety than most people for no reason, and it’s irrational, so I just need to practice reminding myself that all of these strong thoughts and feelings I keep experiencing are irrational. This caused me to become very split from my body and, and I believe, fed into some of the severe self-hatred I began to experience as I grew into my teens. I began to believe I was just defective and irrational, and that I needed to have tight control over myself for these reasons.

I always felt the strong need to know what was happening around me and to have a lot of control in my life - I couldn’t handle unpredictability. So when my body started to change around age 14, I struggled a lot. I felt completely out of control and began to actively hate myself more intensely than I’ve hated anything else. I restricted food and exercised compulsively - when I pushed my body so hard that it hurt, I felt like that’s what I deserved. I would just stare at my body in the mirror and want to mutilate it because I hated it and myself so, so much.

It was very difficult and scary living with myself during that time of my life, because I felt like I had this ever-present abusive person living in my head who hated my guts and wanted me dead. I wanted to die but was too afraid to kill myself, and I hated and berated myself for that too.

In my life, the memory of the VCUG would resurface every once in a while in the form of dreams, feelings, or memories/flashbacks. I remember one time it happened, locking myself in the bathroom and trying to journal about it, but not having the words to describe it outside of “When I was little, I had a very embarrassing surgery.” I later threw that journal in the garbage because I was so disturbed by what I had written down and didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Although the memories continued to haunt me, I mostly felt disconnected from what had happened, so it took me a very long time to realize that so many of the issues I struggled with as a child were connected to the VCUG. The memories felt like they existed in a parallel reality outside of my awareness, and then sometimes they would cross over into my reality to briefly disturb me before disappearing again.

Throughout my childhood, I remember experiencing strong sensations of being violated and absolutely exposed in the most embarrassing way, and I had no idea what was causing them. I’d just feel like that for a few days, and then it would fade - and then happen again.

I could say a lot more about how the VCUG impacted not only how I view myself but the world around me and the medical establishment, but it would probably become a book.

I can’t stress enough how harmful this procedure is and how I wish someone had stepped in and saved me when I was three. One of the worst effects of this in my life today is that I’m still trying to figure out what parts of who I thought I was are actually related to the trauma response and coping mechanisms I’ve developed and practiced since childhood. How much of my disconnect from others and from my own body was not actually my birthright?

I don’t think I’ll ever have answers to those questions, but I’m healing now, and part of my healing is repeating and repeating: please, if you’re a parent or medical professional, please don’t let this happen to children anymore.