Is it really a job for a man?

A female doctor friend had seen many male gynies and obs over her long working life, and had a harsh observation: “They hate women, and like to see them in pain.”

Why do male gynaecologists and obstetricians choose their profession? What’s their motivation to specialise in this most intimate of arenas? I’ve been wondering in the light of several high profile cases involving the butchering and abuse of female patients by male medicos. Doctors such as Graeme Reeves, dubbed the Butcher of Bega, and Emil Shawky Gayed, who has been accused of unnecessary removal of organs and performing unwarranted or wrong procedures on scores of women in NSW. Of course that’s two bad apples out of the hundreds of honourable males practising but the question of motivation is intriguing; we women do wonder. And I write to question.

A female doctor friend had seen many male gynies and obs over her long working life, and had a harsh observation: “They hate women, and like to see them in pain.” A brutal assessment, yes, but a fascinating observation from someone who’d spent decades in the profession. I always gravitate towards female gynaecologists, just as I presume many men gravitate towards male andrologists and urologists. First-hand knowledge – why wouldn’t you?

The question’s been highlighted by Meghan Markle’s approach to the birth of Archie. Much is unknown, but the feeling was she wanted to do it differently; to move away from the phalanx of medical men in suits who traditionally accompany royal births. They’re usually presented as central to the process, their names included in the royal proclamation outside Buckingham Palace after the birth. This time we got nothing. The male doctor – if there was one – wasn’t central to the public narrative in any way. The decision felt egoless, modern, fresh.

I had four midwife-led births; never an obstetrician in the delivery room. The one time I sought the advice of a male doctor was just prior to the birth of my fourth child; I was 44 and being closely monitored. Yet the feeling I got from this man was that the baby’s health and survival was everything in this equation; he made me feel like I was a mere vessel for its safe delivery and not much else. I’d never faced that attitude before, through all the different midwives I’d had. They’d all been big-sisterly, empathetic; and in England I’d only met them in labour.

“Do you think you’d ever find a gay gynaecologist?” was a question once posed by a girlfriend during a get-together involving five mothers, all curious about why men choose to enter this profession. “I used to wear this dewberry body lotion,” an English mate said. “Well, I was having a pap smear and the doctor said, ‘Ooh, you smell nice.’ I never smelled of dewberries again.”

We spent the night debating, why? Two friends who’d recently had their second babies remarked on what they thought were inappropriate comments or actions from male doctors. “He gave me stitches without even asking me – he was so… invasive. And patronising.” The other was appalled when the doctor started questioning her a little too thoroughly about how her sex life was, post baby. “It was just too… voyeuristic.”

But perhaps we’re all becoming a little too jittery. Another mate said her private obie would do anything to avoid examining her nether regions. “Don’t you want to see my bits?” she asked him desperately in the end. He never did, through two C-sections. “I reckon it’s all about power,” one friend concluded of male gynaecologists.

I did ask an obstetrician why he does what he does. “It brings you closer to the whole source and mystery of life,” he replied. “I feel very privileged.”

My conclusion: I just wish there were more women entering this profession. And back to the original question… well, I write to understand, to get us to think. So please enlighten me.