After years of being overlooked, I found a cervical screening option that respected my body and my choice

Eighteen years ago, I had a brainstem stroke that left me permanently in a wheelchair. I can’t walk or stand, I rely on 24/7 care, and I have a speech impairment that makes it hard for me to form words clearly.

Navigating the healthcare system with these needs hasn’t just been difficult — it’s been dehumanising, particularly when it comes to something as personal as cervical screening.

For years, I avoided it. Not because I didn’t care about my health, but because the process made me feel invisible, unsafe, and unheard.

The barriers no one talks about

Accessibility has always been a major hurdle. Time after time, I’ve been denied healthcare because clinics weren’t equipped for someone like me. Rooms were too small for transfers. There were no hoists, no adjustable beds. Just stairs and narrow hallways — a clear message that my body wasn’t considered in the design of these spaces.

Worse still, ignorance is rampant. I’ve had doctors speak over me, ignore my preferences, or treat me like a problem rather than a patient. Finding someone who understands disability, or even tries to, is incredibly rare.These experiences haven’t just affected my physical health. They’ve chipped away at my mental well-being. They’ve made me feel like I am less important, like I don’t matter.

That’s why I’m sharing my story. Because accessible, respectful healthcare shouldn’t be the exception. It should be the standard.

My first cervical screening

In 2019, I had my first Cervical Screening Test. I couldn’t go to my local GP — it wasn’t accessible. So I had to go to a hospital. What should have been a simple check took almost an entire day.

There was no hoist available when I arrived. I waited nearly an hour while a nurse searched the hospital. When one finally arrived, it wasn’t the type I use at home, but we had to make it work. The doctor, a man, did the exam with a speculum. It was invasive and uncomfortable, but I was used to being poked and prodded. I felt like I had no other choice.

I left that day drained. Physically sore, emotionally exhausted, and quietly dreading the next time I’d have to go through it all over again.

Then everything changed

Five years later, I was due for another screening. I braced myself — hospital trip, hoist issues, another long day.

But my doctor handed me a small plastic tube in a sealed pouch that looked like a lip gloss wand. “This is the self-swab option,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it.

The self-swab can be collected by yourself at your local clinic or healthcare setting. However, due to my condition and my support worker’s qualifications, the doctor allowed my support worker to collect my sample at home. Or a nurse from the doctor’s clinic can come to my home and do it.

I chose to do it with my support worker at home. She used my standing lifter to transfer me to my bed. No stress. No long wait times. No strangers. Just a calm, private moment in a familiar space. The whole thing took less than 15 minutes.

And for the first time, cervical screening felt like it respected me, my body, my safety, and my autonomy.

Why self-collection matters

This option didn’t just make things easier. It made me feel human again. Seen. Respected.

It’s a game-changer, not just for people like me living with disabilities, but for anyone who finds cervical screening invasive, distressing, or culturally confronting. After I submitted my sample, my results came back: I had tested positive for two types of HPV.

The news was confronting, but I was grateful. If I hadn’t taken that test, I wouldn’t have known. My doctor explained that the strains were common and usually cleared on their own, but that I’d need another screening in a year.

My second test was done at home, this time by a female nurse. It was just as easy. Just as stress-free. I’ve since learned that around 70% of cervical cancers occur in people who have never been screened or are overdue. That statistic shook me.

This is about more than a test

Getting screened wasn’t just about ticking a box — it was about finally being met with care that fit me, not the other way around. It gave me something I hadn’t felt in years: agency over my health. A sense of control. A reminder that my body is worthy of care, just as it is.

That’s why I chose to speak out and join the Own It campaign — to show that there’s a better, more inclusive way to protect your health. Because for me, cervical screening wasn’t just a medical procedure. It was a turning point.

Too many people are still being left behind by the healthcare system — disabled people, culturally diverse people, and people with trauma. We’re told to put up with discomfort, to stay silent, or to go without. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

Self-swab is proof that when we listen, when we innovate, and when we include — healthcare becomes safer, better, and more equitable for everyone.
This new option reminded me that I matter — and so does my health. I’ve come to believe that the kindest thing we can do for our bodies is to listen to them. To respect them. To advocate for what we need — and what we deserve.

So if you’ve been putting off your cervical screening — whether you’re disabled, anxious, culturally hesitant, or just unsure — I hope my story shows you that it’s okay to ask for a better way. Because there is a better way.

It all starts with one choice. It’s your Cervical Screening Test. Own it.

For more information, visit ownit.org.au.