The Dispensaire Français and Me: Why I Volunteer My Time for Women’s Health in London

There is a particular quality to the silence that follows when a woman finishes telling me something she has been carrying alone for a long time. It is not the silence of the consulting room in Kensington or Harley Street, where the setting is familiar and the appointment expected. It is the silence of a woman sitting in a charity clinic in Hammersmith, often after work, sometimes with a child on her lap, who has just told a doctor — for the first time in years — that something is wrong.

I volunteer at the Dispensaire Français in London. I have written before about the Dispensaire — what it is, who it serves, how it works. This article is different. This is about what I have learned there, and why the work matters to me in a way that goes beyond clinical duty.

The women between two systems

The women I see at the Dispensaire are not a homogeneous group. Some are young, recently arrived in London, working in hospitality or childcare, without settled immigration status and uncertain of their rights. Others have been here for years, are technically eligible for NHS care, but have never managed to register with a GP — or have registered but found the system so different from what they knew in France that they stopped engaging with it. Some are students. Some are mothers. Some are women in their fifties who left France decades ago and have not seen a gynaecologist since.

What they share is a gap. They have fallen between two healthcare systems — the French one they left, which gave them a gynaecologist from adolescence, and the British one they arrived in, which does not offer that relationship. And because gynaecological health is intimate, because it requires trust and linguistic nuance, because so many of these concerns feel private and even shameful, the gap has a way of widening until the silence becomes normalised.

A woman who has not had a smear test in seven years does not usually describe it that way. She says she kept meaning to sort it out. She says she was not sure how the system worked. She says she tried to book one but did not understand the letter, or could not take time off work, or felt embarrassed explaining what she needed in English to a receptionist. The barriers are not dramatic. They are small, accumulating, and entirely understandable.

What I see in a single evening

A clinic evening at the Dispensaire typically runs for a few hours. I see four to six women in that time. The range of what walks through the door is wide, and each appointment carries its own weight.

One woman may come because she has been bleeding irregularly for months and has not known who to tell. Another because she stopped her contraceptive pill when she moved to London — she did not know how to get a new prescription — and is now dealing with the consequences of unprotected sex she had not planned. A third because she is forty-eight, her periods have become erratic and her sleep has collapsed, and nobody has mentioned the word périménopause to her because she has not seen a doctor in three years.

Each of these women would have been caught earlier in France. Not because the French system is perfect — it is not — but because the structure was there. A gynaecologist who knew them. An annual appointment that prompted the conversation. A relationship that made disclosure natural rather than effortful. When that structure disappears, women do not suddenly stop needing care. They simply stop receiving it.

The weight of language

I have learned, over my years at the Dispensaire, that language is not simply a medium of communication in gynaecology. It is a gateway to honesty.

A woman describing vaginal discharge in her second language will often use fewer words, less precise words, and disclose less than she would in French. She will not tell you that the discharge has a particular odour because she does not have the English vocabulary for it, or because she feels the word is indelicate, or because the emotional register of describing intimate symptoms in a foreign language feels exposing in a way that her mother tongue does not. She will say it is fine, or she will not mention it at all, and the diagnosis will be missed.

When I speak to these women in French, the consultation opens like a door. The specificity returns. The embarrassment recedes — not entirely, because gynaecological concerns carry their own vulnerability regardless of language, but enough to allow the clinical conversation to do its work. Research consistently shows that language-concordant care leads to better disclosure, better adherence to treatment, and better clinical outcomes. In gynaecology, where the consultation depends on a woman feeling safe enough to talk about her body, this effect is amplified.

What volunteering teaches me about my private practice

I would be dishonest if I said my work at the Dispensaire does not influence how I practise at Kensington and Harley Street. It does, profoundly.

The women I see privately are, on the whole, different in circumstance. They have insurance, or the means to pay. They have chosen to be there. They have, in most cases, access to the NHS if they need it. But many of them share a version of the same frustration I see at the Dispensaire — they moved from France, they lost their gynaecologist, and the gap in their care has consequences they did not anticipate.

The difference is one of degree, not of kind. A woman at the Dispensaire who has not had a smear in seven years because she could not navigate the system has a parallel in the private patient who has not had a smear in four years because she kept putting it off once she realised it was no longer part of an annual specialist visit. Both women have experienced the same structural problem: the absence of the medical gynaecology model that would have kept them in the system.

My time at the Dispensaire keeps me grounded in this reality. It reminds me that the care I provide is not a luxury. It is a response to a genuine gap — one that affects women at every economic level, but that falls hardest on those with the fewest resources to bridge it themselves.

A charity that has endured for two centuries

The Dispensaire Français is part of the Société Française de Bienfaisance, a registered charity founded in 1816 — over two hundred years ago. It is based at 184 Hammersmith Road, London W6 7DJ, and it provides free and low-cost medical consultations, social support, and welfare services to French-speaking people in the United Kingdom who are in financial difficulty.

The fact that this institution has survived for over two centuries tells you something about the enduring need it serves. French-speaking people in London have always needed a point of access to healthcare that understands their language, their expectations, and the particular vulnerabilities that come with living in a country that is not your own. The Dispensaire provides that. And as long as there are French women in London who are falling through the gaps of the British healthcare system, there will be a need for what it offers.

How you can access the Dispensaire — or support it

If you are a French-speaking woman in London and you need gynaecological care but cannot afford private consultation, the Dispensaire is here for you. Consultations are free, they are in French, and they are provided by specialists who understand your medical culture. You can contact the Dispensaire through their website at www.df-sfb.org.uk or by calling them directly.

If you are in a position to support the Dispensaire, there are several ways to contribute:

• Donate. The charity relies on the generosity of individuals and companies to continue its work. Financial contributions of any size are welcome.
• Spread the word. Many women who would benefit from the Dispensaire do not know it exists. If you know someone in the French-speaking community who might need these services, please tell them.
• Volunteer. Healthcare professionals and support staff are always needed. If you have skills to offer, the Dispensaire would be glad to hear from you.