Speculation

Keeping abreast of advances in women's health

“Please disrobe and get up onto the table,” said the nurse as I followed her into the examination room. “You can cover yourself with this,” she added, passing me a well-laundered sheet—one that looked like it might fit a small baby crib but would do little to protect my modesty.

The room was cold, and goosebumps rose on my arms as I shrugged out of my sweater, t-shirt, and pants. Fearing someone would enter and catch me mid-disrobe, I quickly removed my bra and panties, grabbed the sheet, and fastened it toga-style around my torso. I maneuvered myself up onto the examination table, perching with my legs dangling down. At nineteen, I had no inkling of what was to come.

A quiet knock on the door. “Are you ready, Janet?” the nurse asked.

“Yes,” I called back, my voice rising to a thin quaver.

Dr. Fyvie entered, followed by the nurse, who positioned herself near the door.

“Hello, Janet,” said the doctor, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves. Settling onto a small rolling chair, he reached out and swiveled a set of stirrups into position at the end of the table. “Please lie back and place your feet here,” he directed. “Now scootch down until your bottom is at the edge.”

The moment my heels landed in the stirrups, I felt the weight of complete exposure. I tried to reassure myself that my doctor had seen thousands of women’s bodies, that to him this was routine. But these were **my** private parts, and although I knew them by touch, I had never actually seen them. This was long before Georgia O’Keeffe’s flowers suggested a new way of looking at the vulva, before feminists urged women to grab a hand mirror and become familiar with themselves.

I tried to relax, but the moment the cold metal of the speculum entered me, my body betrayed me. I tensed.

“Relax,” Dr. Fyvie intoned. “This will only take a minute.”

That was fifty years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday.

A Welcome Alternative

There’s something about the cadence of decades rolling over. A half-century feels vast—long enough to contain a lifetime, short enough that I can still recall moments with crystal clarity. In fifty years, science and medicine have given us breathtaking advances: heart transplants, IVF, the eradication of smallpox.

And yet, for all that progress, the gynecological exam remained largely unchanged.

For decades, I braced myself for the annual pilgrimage to my GP—the ritual of disrobing, lying back, surrendering to the cold intrusion of the speculum. Over the years, minor improvements softened the ordeal. The requirement for a nurse’s presence disappeared. The speculum seemed to shrink. Kinder practitioners (usually women) warmed it in their hands before insertion. But the fundamentals remained the same: feet in stirrups, splayed in vulnerability, the internal scrape of the swab, and, above all, a complete lack of control.

Then, something remarkable happened.

Early in 2025, I received a letter from our health authority. Based on my age, this would have been the last year I needed to undergo cervical cancer screening. But instead of another visit to the doctors office, the letter offered an alternative to the assaults: a Cervix Self-screening kit.

Revolution in a Red-Capped Tube

Inside the kit was a small swab in a plastic tube sealed with a bright red cap, an illustrated brochure, and a QR code linking to a how-to video. The swab was thinner than the smallest tampon I had ever used. And thanks to the years of at-home COVID testing, I felt oddly confident in my ability to collect my own specimen.

No stirrups. No speculum. No stranger between my legs.

The process was simple, painless, and entirely within my control. In mere minutes, I had done for myself what a doctor had always done for me. Decades of discomfort, embarrassment, and helplessness—gone in an instant.

What Comes Next?

If science can liberate us from the speculum, surely the misery of the mammogram is next?

At sixty-nine, my breasts succumbed to gravity years ago. But that doesn’t mean I relish the annual ritual of having them flattened like pancakes in search of evidence of breast cancer.

One can only hope that somewhere, in a purpose-filled laboratory, great scientific minds are working on a kinder way.

After all, if advances in diagnostics can save me from the stirrups, perhaps they can spare me from the squeeze. I still have time.