Modesty is Not a Medical Term: Visiting the Doctors in France
By: Zoë Smith
Tags: France, French Doctors, French Expats, Paris, French Living

Visiting the doctor in France is a whole other experience. Photo by H Shaw on Unsplash

When it comes to baring skin, the French and English seem to have very different ideas of modesty.

Contrary to the French stereotype of sexual liberation — a myth fuelled by risqué cabarets, French kissing, and topless sunbathers lounging along the Côte d’Azur — Brits might be surprised (disappointed, even) to find modern-day France more low-key than libertine.

It’s safe to say that most British women, upon moving to France, will likely find they can swap the Wonderbra for a balconet, roll down their skirt a few inches, and whittle down their make-up routine to a touch of lipstick and a hint of parfum. French women are far too chic and subtle to need to flaunt their sexuality. And generally, what goes on behind the curtains (or rather, les volets) stays there.

There is, however, one place where these French-English rules of modesty are completely turned on their head. The doctor’s surgery.

Now, I wouldn’t exactly call the English prudish, but when it comes to having to remove our clothes at the doctors, there is an entire system of rules and regulations put in place to preserve your precious modesty.

Doors are locked, privacy screens are rolled out. Ample time is given for you to arrange yourself on the examination table and strategically cover your private parts with acres of paper towels, before your doctor politely asks if they can enter. Even the examination itself takes place beneath a complex origami of paper towels, taking care to reveal just enough skin required for the medical procedure, and not a cm more. There is never, under any circumstances, eye contact.

In France, things are a little different.

My first medical examination in France, after being asked the usual questions about my health, weight, medical history, and whether I thought the food was better in France than in England, my doctor looked up at me and said simply: “Ok, you can take off your clothes”.

“Which clothes?” I asked, confident that I could get out of this. Translation: tell me which bit you need to examine and I will happily roll up a sleeve or hold up my t-shirt for you to take peek… but let’s not get carried away! There’s no need to get naked.

“All of them,” came the reply, and perhaps sensing my sheer panic, she added: “you can keep your knickers”.

“Thanks,” I said, in that very British way that we thank people for things that we are not remotely appreciative of, simply because politeness has been programmed into our DNA.

“Where?” I asked meekly, looking around in vain for the privacy screen.

“Here” she looked at me quizzically, as if perhaps I’d made an error in French. Where else would we go?

I glanced purposely at the male medical student sat beside her who possibly was not even old enough to be in the same room as a twenty-something braless woman. He seemed completely unphased.

“…Now?” I was scraping the barrel of excuses.

There was nothing for it. This was the moment I would finally have to embrace being a true European and get over my pathological fear of being naked anywhere that wasn’t a bedroom or bathroom. I took a deep breath…

***

Flash forward two years and I’m now fully ‘au fait’ with the French way. I no longer care when my doctor asks me to hop on the scales or remove my shirt (ok, fine, I still find it all a bit embarrassing, but I get on with it anyway).

I once went for a mammogram and was left sitting topless for 20 minutes in a cubicle-sized examination room with multiple entrances, and actually laughed about the fact that if I opened the wrong door I’d find myself topless in front of the entire waiting room.

In fact, I am now so very matter-of-fact about nudity in a medical context, that when, during a recent trip to the gynaecologist, I heard that infamous line: “You can take off your clothes” I was fully prepared.

“All of them?” I asked cheerily, already kicking off my boots and popping open the button on my jeans, because I am now so European that I am unphased by being asked to get my kit off in front of a complete stranger.

My gynaecologist looked positively horrified.

“Of course not, just the bottom half,” he clarified, quickly pointing out that there was a changing room (a changing room?! what is this, England?!) just over there to the right.

“Is that what they do in England?” he asked. I’m pretty sure I saw him blush.

“Um, no” I mumbled, as I gathered up my clothes and made my way sheepishly over to the changing room.

Apparently, I’d become a little too French even for the French.