In the Face of Misogyny in Medicine, Be a Better Person

When a patient discloses an experience of harassment, abuse, or assault, our first response as physicians, we are taught, should be compassion.

Yet, we often fail to offer compassion when our colleagues disclose the same.

A recent piece from Jennifer Lycette, MD, in the style of a monologue from the movie Barbie, lamented the challenges that female physicians face in the workplace. It resonated deeply with me, and I’ll make an educated guess that most of my female colleagues can relate to at least one of the listed grievances.

From my third year of medical school to now, patients whose cognitive faculties are fully intact have made inappropriate requests of me that they do not make of my male colleagues: “Hey sweetheart, turn around and bend over for me!” “Why don’t you get into bed with me?” Sometimes, they even touch me.

Just a few weeks ago, a patient high-fived the male third-year medical student I was supervising as we walked through the unit together: “Nice going, player! Getting all the girls!” The experience was humiliating, as though I were my student’s sexual conquest and not an authority figure.

And often enough, patients do not respect my role as a physician. Some freely address me either by my first name or by “Hey, Nurse!” despite the “MD” emblazoned over my ID badge reel. Although I love my job, Lycette’s article hit very close to home.

But, of course, the comments rolled in admonishing Lycette for her gendered discussion and even for her audacity in writing the piece: “Quit thinking so much and just do your job and you will be much happier.”

These responses from fellow clinicians are disappointingly common when female physicians openly discuss their negative experiences in medicine. A recent Doximity op-ed by Mohini Dasari, MD, recounts her experience of flagrant misogyny during her surgical training and the professional retaliation she faced upon reporting it. Her story clearly resonated with many in the physician community; yet Dasari did not escape the inevitable criticisms of being “hypersensitive” and overreacting by reporting the surgeon in question, rather than having a private discussion with him. One commenter responded that she was inappropriately “fighting a culture war” while another seemingly chastised her for reporting at all, saying that she should prepare to have her own behavior examined because she reported a colleague. He later rolled back his comment, but then suggested that she took the misogyny “out of context.”

And although Dasari focused solely on her personal experience and did not make any broad generalizations about male behavior, some commenters felt the need to ensure she knew that women in medicine were bullies too. Others added that women now senselessly accuse their male colleagues of sexual harassment. When I entered the discussion, one physician advised that I “get thicker skin.”

My article asking for compassion toward female hesitancy around male obstetricians met with its own litany of complaints. Although I explained that this hesitancy is often rooted in sexual trauma and in risk aversion due to well-documented cases of sexual misconduct by a minority of male providers that have ramifications for male providers as a whole, I could not avoid accusations of misandry, among other objections.

One of these “other objections” is when someone feels the need to share a reminder that women can be abusive to men, an objection that not only Dasari encountered, but that I also faced when I disclosed my experience of reporting a colleague for alleged sexual misconduct in the professional environment and abusive behavior towards me. To these commenters: we know. I am fully aware that women in medicine are capable of abuse.

It is extremely invalidating when someone defensively snaps, “Not all men!” or “Women abuse too!” after we share deeply personal experiences of misogyny in medicine. We don’t deny that there exist good men or that women can cause harm. But these responses feel like an effort to demean our experiences by shifting the focus of the discussion when what we’re really asking for is understanding, compassion, and help.

These responses — belittling women’s pain by labeling women as “hypersensitive,” invalidating women’s experiences by insisting that they are equal perpetrators, or silencing them with accusations of man-hating — are far from collegial. I expect this from Twitter trolls, not from my medical colleagues.

More insidiously, any demands that physicians who report professional mistreatment should “get thicker skin” or handle it privately imply that mistreatment is acceptable. They suggest that the targets of misconduct should quietly tolerate it, enabling perpetrators, both male and female, to escape culpability and allowing a pernicious culture of misconduct within medicine.

And to the commenters who insist that female physicians who disclose male misconduct and abuse must hate men: we do not. We hate being diminished and disrespected, and we hate being silenced, as though we are unreasonable for objecting to their behavior.

But I don’t hate men at all. Male physicians comprise some of my staunchest allies and I cannot overstate how much I value them.

My medical student who had been congratulated for “getting all the girls” tentatively approached me later: “I didn’t like what he said to you. I’m sorry. I wish I’d said something back.” I truly appreciated his emotional vulnerability and support.

Upon learning that a patient had sexually harassed and inappropriately touched me, my attending immediately pulled me from seeing him again: “You should never be in that situation. We need to do more to protect our female residents.” That support continues to uplift me.

And my very dear friend, a physician who supported me through my experience of reporting abuse and misconduct and through the subsequent backlash that still haunts me said the thing that stays closest to my heart today: “What do you need from me right now? Do you need me to tell you what I think, or do you need me to listen?” I will always be grateful for him after he selflessly offered the unconditional support that I needed at that impossible time in my life.

These men exemplify the empathy we want and appreciate in the face of misogyny, and are, in my view, the epitome of good men in medicine. Be more like them.

Chloe Nazra Lee, MD, MPH, is a resident physician in the Department of Psychiatry at the University of Rochester Medical Center in New York.

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