is such an honour to write something for the whole world to see. But I couldn’t have done it without the support of some incredible human beings who deserve huge thanks.
To Dr Rupy Aujla, my brother from another mother, for being the one who forced me to put myself out there to talk about something I believe the world needs to know.
To Dr Laura Thomas, for taking a chance on The Gynae Geek and inviting me on her podcast to discuss vaginas before that was a ‘cool’ thing to do.
To Dr Hazel Wallace and Alice Liveing, who both gave me a massive leg-up by collaborating with me on their social-media channels and giving me valuable advice about how to survive in the online world.
To Carly Cook, for her sass and support throughout the book-writing process and for hydrating me with many a mint tea. To the wonderful HarperCollins team – Carolyn Thorne, who saw the potential in my idea, George Atsiaris, Josie Turner and Julie McBrayne, who brought the campaign to life – thank you all!
To Adam Willis, my strength coach, but most of all my friend, for always being a voice of reason.
To my best friend, Achini Wanasinghe, and my mum, who listen to my moaning on a daily basis and support me no matter what. And all my other friends who have put up with being ignored for the time that I’ve spent writing the book.
To both of my parents for giving me the education that enabled me to be in the position to write this book.
To all the patients and my social-media followers who shared their stories and asked the questions that inspired it.
And finally, to Menelaos Tzafetas, aka ‘Mr Gynae Geek’, for being the one, in so many ways.
Introduction: Down-there healthcare by the Gynae Geek
It’s three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon and I’ve just performed a surgical evacuation on a woman who was nine weeks pregnant before she miscarried. I’m in theatre, writing an operation note, when my bleep goes off. It’s A&E. I speak to a worried-sounding nurse who asks me to come urgently and see a patient: ‘Forty-one years old … bleeding very heavily … not pregnant … haemoglobin is four and—’
‘What did you say? FOUR?’ I jump in.
‘Yes, Doctor, four—’
‘OK, I’m coming. Put her in resus. And put in a large cannula if you don’t already have good IV access. Oh, and what is her pulse?’
‘One hundred and seven.’
‘OK, I’m coming, I’m coming.’
I’m worried. Why is this patient’s haemoglobin level almost one third of what is normal for a healthy female? I scrawl the rest of my notes in my best ‘I’m-in-a-rush-but-I’m-trying-to-make-this-as-legible-as-possible’ handwriting, a skill that’s almost second nature now. I grab a disposable green paper gown to cover my theatre scrubs and run down the corridor to A&E. I enter the resus department, my gown fanning out rather dramatically behind me, and rush into the patient’s cubicle.
She is hooked up to a machine that is beeping wildly because of her racing pulse, and there is a lot of blood on the bed. The nurse I spoke to on the phone looks concerned, standing over the patient who seems surprisingly calm, albeit slightly clammy. I ask her if she’s sure she isn’t pregnant; she laughs and tells me it’s impossible, and the nurse confirms the pregnancy test is negative. She tells me she’s having her period, but it’s much heavier than normal. I ask her how many pads she’s been using.
‘Pads?’ she asks. ‘Oh, I don’t use those until Day 2 or 3 when things have settled down. I normally take the first day or two off work and sit on folded-up bath towels because there’s so much bleeding. Today it was so heavy though that I was just sat in the shower for a few hours, washing away the blood as it came out. But I didn’t feel well, and I think I might have passed out, so I called an ambulance.’
I look at the patient, who is slightly obese and of South Asian descent, which, along with her symptoms, makes me begin to suspect she has a cancer. I ask her how long she’s had this bleeding.
‘Probably about twenty years.’
Twenty. Years. No wonder her haemoglobin is four. In fact, I’m surprised she made it this far without ever having had to come to hospital, especially as she has been losing iron at the speed of sound for two decades.
I perform an internal examination and blood clots the size of my palm begin to fall out of her vagina. Then, miraculously, the bleeding seems to stop. I wait for a few seconds to see if more blood will come out. Nothing. I wait some more … and some more … and then there’s another steady trickle. I instruct the nurse to get me some IV tranexamic acid (a drug to stop bleeding) urgently, which she does, and I administer it myself. I prescribe a blood transfusion and tell the nurse to give some IV fluids to stabilise the patient, while we wait for the blood to be cross-matched in the lab. I also prescribe tablets to slow down the bleeding.
As I wait to give the tranexamic acid time to work, I ask the patient – trying not to sound patronising – why she has never sought help for her heavy periods. She tells me she had come to think it was normal, and even a few years ago when she began to suspect it was not, she was too embarrassed to discuss it with friends or family, or to go and speak to her GP. As we talk, her bleeding slows down, and I arrange for her to be transferred to the gynaecology ward. She will be observed and receive a blood transfusion, though I have no idea at this point that she will need four units of blood.
Walking away from A&E, I can’t believe what I have just seen. And I realise I will never get over the shock I feel when patients drop this kind of bombshell; nor will I ever truly understand the extraordinary things some people accept as ‘normal’.
* * *
If you’re still with me, and are not feeling too queasy from my casual Wednesday-afternoon bloodbath, let me introduce myself. My name is Dr Anita Mitra, B.Sc., M.B.Ch.B., Ph.D. I’m a London-based doctor, qualified in 2011 and I’m now training to be a specialist in Obstetrics and Gynaecology (O&G). I have almost fifteen years of clinical and lab-based research experience under the belt of my oversized NHS tie-top scrubs. An interesting fact is that my surname is the Greek word for ‘uterus’ – although I’m not actually Greek, and I didn’t always want to be a gynaecologist.
Now sit tight if you’re ready to hear the somewhat off-piste route that led me to become the turmeric-latte loving, dead-lifting doctor who removes disco balls from ‘you-know-where’ for a living …
From the age of about three, I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a surgeon. But at seventeen, I was far too cool for school and, as a result, the only A grade I got in my A-levels was in German, which didn’t do much for any of the medical schools I’d applied to. I ended up talking my way into a place on a Medical Biochemistry course at the University of Leicester, after the admissions tutor told me my grades were ‘a bit lower’ than they’d normally accept. During my time reading Medical Biochemistry I worked in a research lab, studying the anticancer mechanisms of plant-based chemicals (which is essentially the scientific basis for the current turmeric latte trend). This was the first time I truly appreciated the impact of diet and lifestyle on our health. I worked my socks off during my undergraduate years and graduated three years later with a first-class degree and a place at Leicester
