Disabled Women Need OBGYN Care, Too

Why OBGYN accessibility matters, and what patients and providers are doing do improve it

Drawing of Liu walking to the OB-GYN, made my me

It was 1982 and Elena Liu had already started to decorate the nursery for the baby-to-be. Yellow (gender neutral and joyful) with pops of sage green and cream. Lots of fluffy things, because duh. On the bookshelf, a collection of history mini-books for babies. Never too early to be informed, Liu (who asked to use a pseudonym) says.

On the ceiling, her husband Andrew (who also asked to use a pseudonym) had hung origami butterflies on beaded string for his child to grab and tug on. “What is the point of childhood, if not for exploration?” He smiled at Elena, she says, and pointed out that the butterflies could also be used to illustrate concepts in physics, like the pendulum or the spring. Upon hearing this at the time, she says, their college friend Harriet rolled her eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen, the nerdiest, most overprepared parents of all time.”

But at her local gynecology clinic, Liu’s doctor didn’t see her as nerdy or overprepared. As Liu remembers things, all he registered was her blindness, her white canes tapping on the linoleum floor. “We have a blind person coming in,” she says he told the front desk. “Make sure she gets help.” He didn’t bother to ask Liu if she needed the help.

She didn’t, she says.

"I was blind, and they had no faith in my ability to be a mom. At that vulnerable time, I almost lost faith in myself, too.”

She remembers waiting in a sterile hall, white light reflecting off the bare walls and sheet vinyl flooring. The doctor, handing her a thick stack of consent forms with small black print, sat with Liu, and read the forms with painful slowness. Eventually he asked her if she could read on her own. “Reading is not a problem for me,” she tells me, laughing as she remembers. “I’m a historian.” She had already published several op-eds at the time.

Liu told him she was pregnant.

She’s still haunted by his response: “It’s not too late,” he said. “Would you like an abortion?”

Liu was silent for a while, struggling to process what she’d heard. She was so appalled, she says, that she couldn’t register her emotions.

“No,” she finally told him. “I would like to carry this pregnancy to term.”

“Oh,” the doctor said. “So have you contacted a lawyer about giving up the baby?”

“I was a married woman,” she says now. “But I was blind, and they had no faith in my ability to be a mom. At that vulnerable time, I almost lost faith in myself, too.”

Liu’s pregnancy may have happened decades ago, but women with disabilities say that problems persist with their receiving obstetrical and gynecological care. “People with disabilities need OBGYN care,” says Jordy Heinrichs, a college student with cerebral palsy whose mother happens to be a gynecologist. Almost all disabled women will experience something that requires an obstetrician or gynecologist, Heinrichs points out, whether it’s “menstruation, sexually transmitted infections, UTIs, pregnancy”--even potentially fatal emergencies such as ovarian cancer. According to the Centers for Disease Control, more than 10 percent of reproductive-age women have a disability. Yet these women often don’t receive the care they need. Sexually transmitted diseases are twice as prevalent in women with disabilities, and women with disabilities are less likely to receive gynecological examinations, mammograms, cervical cancer exams, breast exams and pap tests, research at the NIH finds.

Disability advocates say a key reason for this gap is stigma. “Some Americans still believe that disabled people shouldn’t have sex, shouldn’t become parents, shouldn’t receive social support,” says Ashira Greenberg, a public health researcher who identifies as disabled. Qualitative survey studies (such as this one from researchers at University of Alabama) reveal that people overwhelmingly assume someone is asexual if they are disabled. Because of this bias, medical providers are ill-prepared to support people with disabilities. A study published in the Health Equity Journal revealed that only 17.2 percent of surveyed ob-gyns were trained in caring for patients with disabilities. People with disabilities often do not receive essential reproductive healthcare, are less likely to seek medical treatment, experience higher rates of medical neglect, and are routinely excluded from conversations about sexual health and bodily autonomy.

While outright refusal of services is illegal under the Americans with Disabilities Act, “softer” refusals, where people are turned away because providers are “ill-prepared,” happen often. In a study published in the journal of Health Affairs, many physicians openly admitted that they did not want to care for people with disabilities when interviewed anonymously. According to the study, providers are quick to use easy excuses–such as a lack of accessible equipment, short appointment times, or a lack of familiarity with disability–to turn away patients. This form of ableism is hard to track, hard to penalize, and as a result, challenging to prevent.

Stylized illustrations I made of young Strayer and her, holding hands with her husband

Cassandra Strayer (a pseudonym) still recoils when she remembers the “horrifying” instances of discrimination she faced during her pregnancy. Strayer, who uses a wheelchair, had been eagerly planning to have a child with her husband. Excited that she was going to be a mother, she shared the news with work colleagues, acquaintances, and strangers when they asked her for life updates. She lists some of the appalling responses she received:

“Were you raped?”

“Who did that to you?”

“Is that even possible? You know—mechanistically?”

Strayer, now in her late 50s, shapes one hand into a ring and inserts the pointer finger of her other hand into and out of it, comedically. “I’m like. People. There’s so much more to sex than fitting part A into part B or whatever.” She smiles. “People who think that are probably missing out on some good sex.”

Entering public spaces holding hands with her husband, strangers frequently praised him instead of treating them as equals, calling him “selfless” or a “precious, caring soul” for being with her, she says.

“Why is that so hard? To imagine me as a loving, committed partner?” Cassandra asks earnestly. “Like yeah, my husband’s great and all. But look at me!” She gestures up and down with her hands and flicks her hair. “I’m pretty frickin’ awesome too.”

To Strayer, this experience is a classic example of “inspiration porn,” a term disability advocates use to describe situations where disabled people are portrayed as objects of pity in need of rescue. Labeling everyday human experiences like being in a relationship with a disabled person “inspiring” fails to recognize disabled people as complex individuals with inherent value, intellect, and agency. This attitude shapes how people with disabilities are viewed socially and affects how people in power make decisions, leading to systemic inequities in healthcare, employment, and education.

“I assumed that if anyone was interested in me sexually, they wanted to hurt me. There had to be some nefarious, malicious, something.”

Alexa Adams first began thinking seriously about disability and sexual health when she took a gap year to study abroad after high school. Adams, who has cerebral palsy, was excited to see more of the world and learn from new perspectives. But unlike other students studying abroad, who were fantasizing about new romance and adventure, Adams wasn’t imagining romantic dates or dramatic flings. She imagined something scarier.

“I was freaked out,” she says, voice quickening. “I assumed that if anyone was interested in me sexually, they wanted to hurt me. There had to be some nefarious, malicious, something.”

“The statistics are the statistics,” she tells me. Rates of sexual violence are significantly higher for women with disabilities, according to the National Institutes of Health. A cross-sectional national study published in the American Journal of Preventive Medicine revealed that 30% of women with disabilities were physically or sexually assaulted. For people with multiple disabilities, like Adams, that number rose to 42.1% of women. Because of low reporting rates, stigma, and different inclusion and exclusion criteria for “disability” across studies, this statistic varies greatly, with some sources like the Disability Justice Resource Center stating that the number is as high as 83% for women with intellectual or developmental disabilities.

Excluding disabled women from conversations about consent and sexual autonomy has devastating consequences. Yet healthcare providers are not properly equipped to address and mitigate these impacts. Reflecting on her childhood, Adams tells me that well-meaning medical providers were unprepared when it came to disability and sexual health. She recalls the first major instance of this, when she had conversations with her doctor about starting her period as a teen. Cerebral palsy affects the onset of menstruation for many women, with many women experiencing early puberty, period pain, and complications with regular menstruation. Yet, her doctor didn’t receive training on how disability could affect puberty, Adams says. The doctor struggled with specialized equipment to conduct medical examinations and transferring Adams appropriately because she used a mobility device. The doctor was afraid of hurting her due to the lack of training, and could not provide support. Adams felt as though she and her family had to navigate puberty almost entirely on their own.

When Adams was in high school, her mother recognized the need to establish ob-gyn care early. She hoped that, by connecting with a provider early and establishing a plan for care, the provider would have enough time to research how Adams’ disability would affect ob-gyn care and make the appropriate accommodations for cervical exams, pap smears, routine examinations, etc. Her mother approached her ob-gyn about reproductive healthcare for Adams. The doctor was surprised that Adams’ mother wanted to discuss sexual health considering that her daughter was not yet sexually active. The provider asked her mother Adams even needed such care, Adams recalls.

Her mother explained to the physician that her daughter’s puberty had been difficult precisely because other healthcare professionals were not knowledgeable about disability. She emphasized how important it was to start planning for ob-gyn accommodations early, so that her daughter would not feel that lack of support again.

Adams says the doctor responded, “Because of her disability, we don’t know how we would care for her.” Throughout high school and her early adult life, Adams had not a single visit with an ob-gyn. Because of these experiences, Adams feared that even in an emergency event like assault, providers would be unable to help. “It would be like a dual traumatization,” she tells me, saying that not only would she have to deal with the trauma of sexual violence, but also “the trauma of figuring out medical care all alone.”

“People could lose organs because providers don’t know what to do.” Adams shakes her head. “That’s ridiculous. That’s just. No.”

Strayer was only able to visit the OB-GYN when she experienced a gynecological emergency (drawing done by me)

In her senior year of college, Adams experienced a gynecological emergency unrelated to assault. She had felt sick for several months, initially having cold and flu like symptoms with an involuntary shaking reflex. Assuming that this was normal college sickness and that the reflex was a result of her cerebral palsy, she tried to ignore these symptoms. However, the symptoms persisted, and after experiencing severe abdominal pain in class, her parents took her to the hospital. She was dismissed shortly, with professionals telling her these symptoms were just a result of “aging with congenital and chronic disability,” she tells me. “I was 20 years old at the time,” Adams points out. “That’s not very old.”

Ten months later, Adams felt the pain again and returned to the hospital. This began a long and drawn out process, she tells me. “It got better, I was sent home, it got worse, I went back to the hospital, and so on.

Eventually, doctors found the answer: a benign ovarian tumor, which required an emergency surgery to address. They also discovered that she had ovarian torsion, a severe condition where ligaments become twisted, cutting off blood supply to the ovaries. “Had I received regular checkups, the problem likely could have been caught earlier, and I wouldn’t have ended up in this situation,” Adams says.

While providers tried their best to support Adams throughout the surgery, the lack of disability training was still evident, Adams says. Providers were not sure about how to perform the ultrasound, what accommodations they would need for examinations or transferring her on the operating table safely, and whether the procedure would have any disability-related complications. The emergent nature of the operation and the risk of liability if something went wrong made it additionally challenging for providers. Physicians asked Adams–still processing what had happened– to educate them about what accommodations she needed. “Of course, I didn’t know what to do because I had never been to the ob-gyn before, because they refused to see me!” Adams exclaimed.

Adams says that she got “very lucky, thankfully.” The cancer was treated successfully and she did not lose her ovaries. “The actual surgery part was nice and simple,” she said, “it was just dealing with everything else.” She emphasizes that there are many equity-minded providers who do their best to provide quality care for women with disabilities. She appreciated how her doctors listened to her and took time to answer all her questions, from serious questions about the procedure to questions she asked “just out of curiosity,” like how the ultrasound gel worked. Still, Adams says she’s “appalled” that more gynecologists aren’t trained to handle reproductive healthcare for women with disabilities even in the most extreme situations, such as emergency treatment for ovarian cancer.“People could lose organs because providers don’t know what to do.” Adams shakes her head. “That’s ridiculous. That’s just. No.”

Cody Unser exploring the outdoors as she travels, delivering her presentation about OB-GYN accessibility across the US

Public education and research are the first step to addressing these disparities, says Cody Unser, a public figure and disability advocate. Unser’s work as a disability advocate started when she was 12. She was playing basketball and felt a sudden tightness in her chest, and piercing head pain. She struggled to breathe, felt her legs tingle, then go numb. Paramedics rushed her to the emergency room.

Doctors there told her she was dehydrated or perhaps experiencing pubescent hysteria. They sent Unser home.

But her family recognized something was wrong, and soon returned with Unser to the hospital. She underwent two weeks of medical testing. Eventually she was diagnosed with Transverse Myelitis, a rare neurological disorder in which the immune system attacks the spinal cord.

Unser remembers sitting in the hospital after she received her diagnosis, hearing babies crying and watching kids stuck in hospital rooms waiting for diagnoses, just like she had. Unser felt called to find ways to help other children with disabilities. Only a year later, Unser, worked with her mother to start her nonprofit foundation, the Cody Unser First Step Foundation.

By the time she was in her early 20s, Unser was a public figure. She was inducted into the Women Divers Hall of Fame, created a documentary called “Sea of Change,” developed her own major– “Biopolitics”– at the University of Redlands in California, lobbied for stem cell research at the federal and state levels, and in 2008, campaigned for Democratic presidential candidate Bill Richardson as his disability ambassador.

“Every woman should have the right and opportunity to understand how and why her body works,” Unser says.

Still, despite these accomplishments, and like many other disabled women, young Unser struggled to fathom one thing: having a sexual relationship.

“My sexual education didn’t take place at school or in kids’ basements,” she says. She describes being taught about sex biologically in a hospital room with “a rubber vagina, a mirror, a catheter and a hilarious, compassionate nurse.” She never saw representations of disabled women being sexual.

Unser visited a gynecologist for the first time when she was 26. During this visit, she became even more aware of the misconception that disabled women are asexual. Her medical staff expressed surprise that she was sexually active. Her provider–lacking medical knowledge about female paralysis– mistook her leg spasm for nervousness. “I expect to be told not to be nervous from the guy I'm kissing on the couch, not from a board certified medical professional who should know the difference. Don’t even bother asking about the best way for you to orgasm.”

She left that visit disappointed and feeling infantilized. She began to research reproductive healthcare for women with disabilities while pursuing her MPH, and realized how widespread this problem was. She resolved to become the representation she wished she had. “Every woman should have the right and opportunity to understand how and why her body works,” Unser says.

Unser began her advocacy work, calling herself “Wheelchair Barbie” online as a reference to Mattel releasing their first Barbie in a wheelchair to offer a more diverse representation of beauty. By referencing “Barbie,” a widely recognized symbol for confidence and beauty, Unser wanted to show people representation of women with disabilities being seen as attractive, desirable, and cool. She travelled across the country giving her signature talk about accessibility and sexual health (titled “Wheelchair Barbie goes to the Gynecologist”) to women with disabilities, doctors, students, and the general public.

Dr. Ashley Hilton, a surgeon and urogynecology fellow at the University of Colorado

One day at the University of Colorado Anschutz Medical Center, Dr. Ashley Hilton– a surgeon and current urogynecology fellow at the University–attended Unser’s talk. Unser was a selected speaker for the Summer Grand Rounds Series, an annual event hosted by the medical school that brings in distinguished speakers to talk about important perspectives in medicine that are likely not covered in medical school. The presentation immediately moved Hilton, who appreciated the practical recommendations and mindset shifts Unser was advocating for. She wished she’d heard the presentation earlier in her training. “Disability is not talked about in medicine,” she says.

When she was in residency at the University of Nevada in Las Vegas, Hilton had enjoyed seeing diverse patients with many types of disability. But she says she received no education about patients with disabilities, ADA requirements, or accommodations in medical school–not even an elective. She began to encounter patients with disabilities, but her clinic didn’t have accommodations or ways to assess patients’ accessibility needs before they arrived at the clinic. “I think there are a vast majority of patients who are not getting care because of the lack of accessibility,” Hilton says.

The thing that stuck out the most from Unser’s presentation was how little research had been done about OBGYN accessibility, Hilton says. “It’s hard to make change if so little is known about a topic." She started having follow-up conversations with Unser, and eventually decided to focus her fellowship research on OBGYN accessibility. She partnered with Unser to create IGRACE: a national survey for providers and patients. This survey asks providers and patients what they think is currently working in terms of accessibility, what they believe are the most urgent barriers, and what changes they’d like to see in OBGYN care. “I’m not hearing from the people who aren’t coming,” Hilton says. “I need to be hearing from those voices. That’s a big part of this project.”

To Hilton, this is why research is so helpful for providers. “We need concrete info, what’s working, what’s not. We need to have more data out there about what patients need and how to provide that,” she says.

Amy Ewing, a current design management student at Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD)

Amy Ewing, a design management student at Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD) with a spinal cord injury, also joined the IGRACE research team after hearing Unser’s “Wheelchair Barbie” presentation. Ewing experienced many challenges when she decided to freeze her eggs, and again when she had to get an ovarian cyst surgically removed. She shared her frightening experience with an anesthesiologist who was not trained on how spinal cord injury could affect anesthesia during the procedure. Later, when she shared her story with people she knew, she was surprised by how many women had similar experiences. Realizing how prevalent this issue was inspired her to get involved. She resolved to bring her design perspective to the project, adding questions about what assistive technologies people were using, what spatial barriers they were encountering, and how they would want to redesign the space.

Daunted by accessibility barriers and discrimination, it took Ewing a long time to revisit the ob-gyn after her paralysis. Luckily, she found a provider she loved. She faced less stigma, she says, but still encountered physical barriers that made examinations challenging. She found it difficult to get on the exam table, she said. She received no written instructions, only oral directions that made the experience more confusing. The exam room’s quarters were tight, her service dog was hard to accommodate, the lighting made it hard for her to see what was happening, and the stirrups caused muscle spasms in the legs. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” she says. “There could be a much better way, not just for me, but for everyone.”

“Providers can’t be expected to be experts on everything,” Ewing says. “That’s why listening is so important. When a provider can benefit from a patient’s expertise, the experience is better for everyone.”

Asked what could have been done differently, Ewing adds that a big part is taking patient concerns seriously and working to implement those changes. She acknowledges that some barriers, like lack of space, are difficult to address immediately. However, other challenges–like inaccessible stirrups–could be easily addressed by simply asking the patient about their needs ahead of time and honoring their requests. She points out that many patients become “mini-experts” on their disability, yet some providers assume patients are not qualified to advocate for what is best for them. “At the end of the day, no one knows their condition better than the person who lives with it every day,” says Ewing. This is one reason why Ewing is grateful to work with Hilton on the project, who she believes is setting a great example for other physicians. She appreciates how seriously Hilton takes the patient perspective, and wishes more providers did, too. “Providers can’t be expected to be experts on everything,” she says. “That’s why listening is so important. When a provider can benefit from a patient’s expertise, the experience is better for everyone.” Ewing also notes that clinics should make it easier to report accessibility issues, so that patients with knowledge about accessibility can share that knowledge and benefit others. To address this problem, Ewing is concurrently pursuing a design project at SCAD, aimed at making the reporting process more intuitive and streamlined. Empowering patients to voice their preferences and share their expertise is essential, she says.

Ashira Greenberg, a public health researcher and core member of the iGRACE study

Ashira Greenberg–another member of the research team–says that in addition to addressing the gap in research, legal and economic changes are needed to ensure accessibility in the long term. For one, Greenberg wants to see people with disabilities integrated as equal members in public administration, corporations, research institutions, and academia. “We have to get people to appreciate the economic capacity of disabled people,” she says, “not just on a DEI committee, but in committees across organizations of all kinds.” She argues that without diverse leadership, decisions will continue to be made without accessibility in mind. She also believes representation is important to show people with disabilities that entering a leadership position and making the changes they want to see is possible.

Another barrier to having people with disabilities in leadership positions, Greenberg says, is that social support is limited if you exceed a specified income threshold. Many people are forced to limit their income and assets in order to receive disability support services and assistance that they need, Greenberg says. This perpetuates inequality. She argues that without legal incentives or changes in policy, people in power are not motivated to change these limitations or encourage more people with disabilities to enter positions of power.“There are a lot of good people out there, but not everyone is equity minded,” she says. People in power who retain biases about disabled people “won’t do anything unless they are legally required to. The legal component is huge” Greenberg says.

“Most patients are not asking for huge financial changes or huge referrals,” Hilton says. “They're just asking for dignity, respect, and a bit more time.”

Illustration of a successful, acccessible OB-GYN visit (made by me)

On the provider side, Hilton echoes Greenberg’s views. She stresses the importance of addressing insurance barriers and reducing the financial pressure physicians face to see more patients. She also believes changes need to be made on the administrative side. Hilton believes that simple changes, like having intake forms to address accessibility needs ahead of time and giving physicians more time with patients, will go a long way in improving accessibility. When asked why clinics haven’t made these changes yet, Hilton lets out a sigh. “It's a sad fact of our society that everyone assumes people are able bodied. There's often too few questions and too many assumptions.” “When you are not encountering the issue it is easy to say the issue doesn’t exist,” Greenberg says. “But disability is way more common that people realize.”

Greenberg concludes by noting that while long-term solutions are important, the biggest priority is making small changes that can improve access in the now. The research gaps are striking, and there are so many clinic policy issues that need to be addressed. But we can’t forget: people still need care today,” she says. Hilton agrees with this view. “Most patients are not asking for huge financial changes or huge referrals,” Hilton says. “They're just asking for dignity, respect, and a bit more time.”

Commentary:

I got the idea for this piece talking to a friend of mine who was blind, who was my age and had never visited the ob-gyn or received proper sex-ed. As I talked to more women with disabilities I knew, I was surprised; the issue seemed ubiquitous and yet, no one was talking about it. I found lots of material online talking about the problem, but scarce resources diving into why the problem existed and what people are doing to solve it. These two components became the central focus of my piece.

As I embarked upon interviews, I realized the power of story. It’s one thing to declare a statement or present a statistic about inaccessibility. It is an entirely different experience talking to a real person, raw and vulnerable and sharing intimate details with you. The experience not only encouraged me to continue amplifying other voices through art and writing, but also to share my story when appropriate to help someone understand the gravity of an issue and make them care about it. I initially felt challenged by how many interviews I conducted and the diversity of experiences people had. It was difficult to include as many perspectives as possible while keeping my focus sharp and specific. However, integrating all of the information I had collected ended up being my favorite part. I discovered connections between themes I hadn’t previously considered (such as narrow portrayals of sexuality and a lack of provider training). Ultimately, through writing this piece, I gained a much clearer understanding of what aspects of inaccessibility most impact women with disabilities, and what I could do about it. My hope is that the readers walk away from the piece feeling the same :).

Interviews:

Dr. Ashley Hilton: 9/26/24

Elena Liu (pseudonym): 10/11/24

Cody Unser: 11/04/24

Alexa Adams (pseudonym): 11/07/24 and 12/05/24

Amy Ewing: 11/06/24

Ashira Greenberg: 11/07/24

Cassandra Strayer (pseudonym): 12/03/24

Jordy Heinrichs: 12/05/24

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