Medical History
Over the course of reading your comments, I realized that a lot of you aren't aware of the particulars of my bad run-ins with the medical profession, and so I thought I'd delineate them for future reference.
A lot of you recommended I go to Planned Parenthood, and while I would like to say that I am very much behind Planned Parenthood in theory, and while I support their mission of bringing affordable health care to women who really need it, I am very much against going to my local clinics personally.
First of all, Planned Parenthood is divided into regions, and not all regions offer the same services. The one local to me, for example, does not offer vasectomies or abortions (or did not, last I enquired).
Also, the local clinic is staffed by total bastards. More on that in a moment.
First, the beginning of the story.
It all began with my first gynecologist, a small, birdish, businesslike woman who struck me as reasonably competent at the time. She was not very warm or friendly, which was fine, but which trait, I am convinced, eventually led her to commit the act which led me to label her: Dr. Icy Bitch.
I first went to Dr. Bitch because I needed someone to fix the period that lasted better than a year and almost fucking killed me with anemia. Though in retrospect she really should have been trying harder to determine the cause of it, she at least managed to make it stop. She put me on extremely high dose birth control pills, which arrested the bleeding.
At any rate, I turned 18, my insurance lapsed, and I could no longer afford to see Dr. Bitch to get birth control. At the time, there was no such thing as the drop-in centers where you can get a birth control prescription without enduring the ducklips of doom. Way back then, the birth control was how they twisted your arm into getting a pelvic exam. So, in need of my pills, I went to the local Planned Parenthood.
In a charming display of open-minded female solidarity, the nurses who performed my exam made unnecessary, negative remarks about both my weight and my . . . err . . . hairstyle . . . which I endured because I was younger and too cowed to say anything about it. They also insisted on testing me for every STD in the book because this was a low-cost clinic in a very bad part of town, and I am sure they saw a lot of problems. Still, they made no effort to be polite about it. They were, in fact, quite accusatory and rude when I asked why they might be testing me for diseases that I knew I literally could not have. It was strongly implied that either I or my husband were unfaithful.
I got my pills anyway. The doctor who wrote my prescription took one look at what I had been taking, made a face, and said "Why on earth were you on a dose this high for so many years? That was totally irresponsible!"
"Huh," says I, and shrugged it off.
Anyway, I got a prescription for lower-dose pills. I was reasonably satisfied with the level of care, if not how they delivered it. Things were fine until my Pap smear results came back as "abnormal." They were grade II, which meant I had to go in for "counseling."
During this counseling, an actual nurse told me that these results meant that I had cancer, and that I would die if I did not go to the (MALE) doctor they recommended to have an expensive punch biopsy performed.
I repeat, they told me I had cancer. They told me it would kill me.
They did not tell me that a grade II abnormality indicates the formation of pre-cancerous cells only. They did not tell me that a punch biopsy is both diagnosis and cure, eliminating the questionable cells even as it removes them for analysis, and often negating the need for further treatment. They certainly did not tell me that odds were vastly in my favor that this was nothing serious.
What did they tell me?
CANCER. DEATH.
I left the clinic in tears, confused and afraid, and went sobbing to my parents, who agreed to pay so I could see Dr. Bitch for a second opinion. And back I went. The results again came back abnormal, but this time the doctor explained that this didn't mean I was in immediate danger of dying from explosive crotch cancer. Still sickened, though less in mortal fear for my life, I agreed to the biopsy.
So there I was in the stirrups, holes punched in my cervix like a bloody Swiss cheese, when a message came in for my doctor. Dr. Bitch literally leaped up, grabbed her bag, and fled, without an apology or explanation, or helping me down from the table. This is, mind you, after she had ripped gobbets of flesh out of my nethers with no anesthetic. She left before giving me aftercare instructions of any kind or answering any of my questions.
As it was, I was left with a very sweet nurse who had no idea what to tell me except what was on the printout she'd been given to give to me. She did explain that one of Dr. Bitch's patients had just gone into labor, which explained the hurried exit.
Fine. The bitch could have spared 90 seconds to answer two questions, apologize, hand me the aftercare sheet, and help me off the table. I mean, I know that women apparently aren't capable of giving birth on their own, but fuck.
Now, the only previous trouble I ever had with this doctor was her clinic staff, who leaked information to my parents after I had turned 18, without my permission. Needless to say, having the doctor just walk off after causing me extreme pain, and while I was still hoisted up in the rigging, was unprecedented.
The icing on the cake was this: when I called her to get answers to my questions, since she'd just run out on me (and she never did apologize for that, even when I brought it up), I asked her what could have caused the abnormal results in the first place. "Usually harmless HPV," she said. "It could have been made worse by high-dose birth control pills, which can thicken the cervical mucus enough to skew the results."
High-dose pills like, oh, say, the ONES SHE FREAKING PRESCRIBED TO ME, and then LEFT ME ON for years and years.
I was livid, naturally, and decided never to go to her again.
What I did do was go back to the Planned Parenthood clinic with my test results in hand and, in front of an entire waiting room full of people, demand to know why they had told me that I had cancer and would die. I demanded to know why they had lied.
To this day I cannot believe they did not simply deny that it had happened, but I swear to you, the person in charge actually tried to explain to me that this was the only way they could get people to come in for the biopsy.
By lying to them.
About CANCER AND DEATH.
Because it's way more important that the clinic cover their asses than it is for them to take time to actually explain to patients what the deal is, and then let them draw their own conclusions. Never mind the suffering this put me through - I was literally freaking the fuck out over it the whole time, and this entire episode took a good couple of months to conclude.
So, no, I will never go back into another Planned Parenthood. Ever. Unless, like the woman from Tours*, I have to fend off stray dogs every time I go outside because my infected crotch smells like roadkill.
Anyway, a couple years down the line, I went off the Pill because all forms of it had started to make me sick, psychotic, and fat. No surprise, my bleeding came back. Having no recourse, and because no doctor would see me without insurance or payment up front, I tucked my tail between my legs, swallowed my pride, and went back to my first gynecologist, Dr. Icy Bitch.
Sadly, Dr. Bitch was off on bitch vacation, so I had to see her partner, Dr. Condescending Douchebag. Dr. Douchebag was an elderly man with an air of calm confidence. His demeanor was much more pleasant than Dr. Bitch's, and at first I thought he might be okay.
The trouble came when I tried to explain that I did not want to take the Pill for the bleeding. I wanted to find out what was causing the bleeding in the first place. He seemed completely unable to understand that I didn't want to treat the symptom, but the cause, and doggedly insisted that I go back on the Pill.
I understood his desire to get the bleeding under control, but was still adamant. I would not do it. I explained that I'd been on six different brands at all different doses, and that none of them had worked for me. The slightest amount of extra hormones sent me into an emotional tailspin. Can't have 'em.
"Nonsense," he said. "Ladies these days love the Pill. It's totally safe."
"I don't believe it is. I'm concerned about the health effects of taking it long-term, and in the short term I am unable to take it because it makes me very, very sick."
But he was not listening. He was staring over my shoulder with glassy eyes and a fixed grin. "That's all right, all ladies love the Pill. It doesn't have any side effects, and it's very safe. Most of the ladies who report side effects are just imagining them, or it's because of their monthlies."
If you are saying to yourself "Self, I don't think Naamah was the sort to put up with that, even then," you are right.
I left, toughed out the bleeding, and it stopped again in a couple of months.
And for five years, I did not go to another doctor for anything below the belt. I found that just the idea made me sick to my stomach and shaky as hell.
Nevertheless, in my quest for sterilization, I eventually decided to make the jump. I made an appointment with a doctor a few towns over who had been specially schooled in the type of non-surgical sterilization (Essure) I desired.
I specifically explained to her that I had had bad experiences with doctors before, and would need to be treated especially gently. She said she understood, and I toughed out the initial exams and all the rest in pursuit of my goal. This doctor, Dr. Crazy Fucking-Cunt, was happy to sterilize me, to my shock.
Alas, the procedure did not go as planned, and the implants could not be placed, so we agreed to try an IUD. Now, the reason the placement failed is because of what she discovered during the procedure: I have scar tissue in my uterus, sticking it together. A side effect of this is a high risk of ectopic pregnancy, or other dangerous conditions. It would be, in other words, very, very bad for me to get pregnant. Keep that in mind.
When I came in to get the IUD fitted, I was terrified. I'd heard stories of terrific pain, and so I was especially jumpy, and I was lucky to get to the clinic without throwing up. So I was shaky as hell when I got there, visibly nervous. I check in at the front desk, where they usually tell you right away if you're going to have to give a urine sample. They say nothing, so I take a leak and sit down. But lo! Come to find out, I have to have a pregnancy test before they'll put the IUD in.
Now, I'm a slow pisser. Working up a good head of piss after I've just taken one can take me upwards of two hours. If I'm stressed or scared, it can be harder still. The prospect of waiting to be able to fill the cup, all the while absolutely sick with anticipation, is worse than anything I can imagine. So I do what anyone would have done.
I explained that my husband and I had not had sex since my last piss-test, and when the nurse insisted, I said (not yelled) "I don't believe this. Fucking shit!" in frustration. Then I stalked into the exam room, threw my coat onto the chair, and proceeded to sulk.
Whereupon I was thrown out for "swearing at" the staff and "throwing things."
I apologized for my behavior after I'd had a minute to calm down, and explained my side of the story to Dr. Fucking-Cunt, and explained that I'd wait to be able to pee in the cup.
To my shock, she flatly refused to fit me for an IUD. I cried, I begged, I pleaded. I told her I'd just had a shitty month (because I really had) and that things were bad for me in a lot of parts of my life, and that now that I knew pregnancy could, y'know, kill me, I thought this was important for my health.
Her response? I was in no emotional state to be making a decision about long-term birth control.
Pardon me, but WHAT?
I wanted to be sterilized, and she was okay with that. And yet here I am, seeking a totally reversible form of birth control, and she thinks I'm too stupid or crazy to consent to it?
Furthermore, I'm too stupid or crazy to be on birth control, but I'm not too stupid or crazy to decide to get pregnant, and maybe fucking kill myself in the process?
Things are bad in my life, so she thought I'd what, want to suddenly pop out a kid and make it all magically go away? Even if I could have children, which I apparently can't or at least shouldn't, did she think bringing a child into a situation like that would be a good idea?
WHAT WAS SHE SMOKING?
I understand doctors refusing to treat patients that seem to be dangerous. I totally get that it's meant to legally cover their asses. But to use such a bullshit excuse is the most patronizing claptrap I have ever heard.
All because I swore.
We won't even talk about the difference between "swearing near" and "swearing at," which she and her staff were clearly too self-righteous to apprehend. (And I am still boggled by her aversion to swearwords - had this woman never had a woman in labor screaming obscenities in her ear? Had no patient ever called their ex-husband a complete prick? Did she never have a patient react to something surprising or painful with a "shit" or a "fuck me"? Gynecology is all about cunts and fucking! How the fuck are you going to avoid swearwords?)
So Dr. Fucking-Cunt insisted I leave. When I told her that I felt my health was dependent on getting birth control and not getting pregnant (which it was), she said I should see someone else. When I explained that I thought I had a residual infection from the failed procedure (and as I later discovered, I did), she refused to even give me an exam. She failed, in other words, to provide much-needed care, and put my health in danger. I told her we could reschedule and try again, when we'd both had time to cool off. Nothing doing.
So I went home, absolutely crushed, and was just sick about it for months. Y'all who were around for that will probably remember. It was very bad.
On top of it all, when I called her she refused to answer very specific, neutral questions about my medical record that only she could answer, like "Roughly what percentage of my uterus was scarred over?" and "Given what you saw while you were in there, how likely is it that I could even get pregnant, accidentally, with this going on?" She would not even recommend another doctor to me (I wanted a list so I could avoid them).
I did file a complaint about her with the state licensing board, and pursued all other means of retaliation I could think of (this is Naamah-speak for "please don't go telling me what I should do/should've done, thanks"), but because there was no grievous harm done, nobody apparently cared.
The whole thing just crystallized the loathing I already felt for the profession. I no longer have any real fear of gynecologists, I just fucking hate them with a cold, dead fire because I have yet to have one fail to turn on me, often after I thought we'd established a decent rapport. That hostility, when suppressed, still feels a lot like fear, though, and it makes dealing with gynecological troubles especially touchy for me.
So that's my tale of woe. I know it's not as bad as some of yours, for which I feel profoundly grateful, no offense. I nevertheless hope that nobody reading this ever has as much trouble as I have had. If you carry one thing away from this story, learn this: you are the responsible party for your health care. If the professionals you hire do not treat you with respect, go elsewhere (provided you can) and when you leave, make your displeasure known, preferably in print. You don't have to take their shit. You are entitled to be treated like a human being, no matter how fat and multiply pierced and slutty -- or virginal -- you may be.
There's a happy ending to my tale, at least. Sargon stepped up to the plate after the last dose of fuckery and decided to get snipped.
And the doctor? Dr. Clark Tingleaf of Claremore, Oklahoma? Gave us no shit whatsoever. The experience was so different from what I have had to endure when it is my body and my decision about what you get to do with it, or what I want to do with it, that it wasn't even funny.
It's enough to wonder what it is about the sight of my pussy that drives people insane.
Anyway, I won't openly publish the bad doctors' names because that might be a stupid thing to do, legally. It would also be stupid because, well, I don't want them getting hate mail or dog shit or death threats that might ever be traced back to me. I'm over the "actively seeking retaliation" phase. But if you are a woman living in Oklahoma, and you want to know who to avoid, I will point out that someone has given negative reviews to Drs. Bitch, Douchebag, and Fucking-Cunt at RateMDs.com.
I will issue a blanket warning against Tulsa-area Planned Parenthoods. I cannot recommend them for anything more complicated than prescribing birth control and administering STD and pregnancy testing. Anything more complicated than that, and you are probably better off seeking a second opinion with a wino in a gutter. The wino will at least let you share his MD 20/20 before he punches holes in your cervix with a rusty icepick.
And with that image I leave you, my beautiful dreamers, and bring an end to this subject for now. I wish each and every one of you better luck in the trenches than I have had.
* My favorite limerick goes like this:
There once was a woman from Tours
whose cunt was all covered with sores.
The dogs in the street
wouldn't eat the green meat
that hung in festoons from her drawers.
No dinner that incorporates cooked spinach is complete without it.
A lot of you recommended I go to Planned Parenthood, and while I would like to say that I am very much behind Planned Parenthood in theory, and while I support their mission of bringing affordable health care to women who really need it, I am very much against going to my local clinics personally.
First of all, Planned Parenthood is divided into regions, and not all regions offer the same services. The one local to me, for example, does not offer vasectomies or abortions (or did not, last I enquired).
Also, the local clinic is staffed by total bastards. More on that in a moment.
First, the beginning of the story.
It all began with my first gynecologist, a small, birdish, businesslike woman who struck me as reasonably competent at the time. She was not very warm or friendly, which was fine, but which trait, I am convinced, eventually led her to commit the act which led me to label her: Dr. Icy Bitch.
I first went to Dr. Bitch because I needed someone to fix the period that lasted better than a year and almost fucking killed me with anemia. Though in retrospect she really should have been trying harder to determine the cause of it, she at least managed to make it stop. She put me on extremely high dose birth control pills, which arrested the bleeding.
At any rate, I turned 18, my insurance lapsed, and I could no longer afford to see Dr. Bitch to get birth control. At the time, there was no such thing as the drop-in centers where you can get a birth control prescription without enduring the ducklips of doom. Way back then, the birth control was how they twisted your arm into getting a pelvic exam. So, in need of my pills, I went to the local Planned Parenthood.
In a charming display of open-minded female solidarity, the nurses who performed my exam made unnecessary, negative remarks about both my weight and my . . . err . . . hairstyle . . . which I endured because I was younger and too cowed to say anything about it. They also insisted on testing me for every STD in the book because this was a low-cost clinic in a very bad part of town, and I am sure they saw a lot of problems. Still, they made no effort to be polite about it. They were, in fact, quite accusatory and rude when I asked why they might be testing me for diseases that I knew I literally could not have. It was strongly implied that either I or my husband were unfaithful.
I got my pills anyway. The doctor who wrote my prescription took one look at what I had been taking, made a face, and said "Why on earth were you on a dose this high for so many years? That was totally irresponsible!"
"Huh," says I, and shrugged it off.
Anyway, I got a prescription for lower-dose pills. I was reasonably satisfied with the level of care, if not how they delivered it. Things were fine until my Pap smear results came back as "abnormal." They were grade II, which meant I had to go in for "counseling."
During this counseling, an actual nurse told me that these results meant that I had cancer, and that I would die if I did not go to the (MALE) doctor they recommended to have an expensive punch biopsy performed.
I repeat, they told me I had cancer. They told me it would kill me.
They did not tell me that a grade II abnormality indicates the formation of pre-cancerous cells only. They did not tell me that a punch biopsy is both diagnosis and cure, eliminating the questionable cells even as it removes them for analysis, and often negating the need for further treatment. They certainly did not tell me that odds were vastly in my favor that this was nothing serious.
What did they tell me?
CANCER. DEATH.
I left the clinic in tears, confused and afraid, and went sobbing to my parents, who agreed to pay so I could see Dr. Bitch for a second opinion. And back I went. The results again came back abnormal, but this time the doctor explained that this didn't mean I was in immediate danger of dying from explosive crotch cancer. Still sickened, though less in mortal fear for my life, I agreed to the biopsy.
So there I was in the stirrups, holes punched in my cervix like a bloody Swiss cheese, when a message came in for my doctor. Dr. Bitch literally leaped up, grabbed her bag, and fled, without an apology or explanation, or helping me down from the table. This is, mind you, after she had ripped gobbets of flesh out of my nethers with no anesthetic. She left before giving me aftercare instructions of any kind or answering any of my questions.
As it was, I was left with a very sweet nurse who had no idea what to tell me except what was on the printout she'd been given to give to me. She did explain that one of Dr. Bitch's patients had just gone into labor, which explained the hurried exit.
Fine. The bitch could have spared 90 seconds to answer two questions, apologize, hand me the aftercare sheet, and help me off the table. I mean, I know that women apparently aren't capable of giving birth on their own, but fuck.
Now, the only previous trouble I ever had with this doctor was her clinic staff, who leaked information to my parents after I had turned 18, without my permission. Needless to say, having the doctor just walk off after causing me extreme pain, and while I was still hoisted up in the rigging, was unprecedented.
The icing on the cake was this: when I called her to get answers to my questions, since she'd just run out on me (and she never did apologize for that, even when I brought it up), I asked her what could have caused the abnormal results in the first place. "Usually harmless HPV," she said. "It could have been made worse by high-dose birth control pills, which can thicken the cervical mucus enough to skew the results."
High-dose pills like, oh, say, the ONES SHE FREAKING PRESCRIBED TO ME, and then LEFT ME ON for years and years.
I was livid, naturally, and decided never to go to her again.
What I did do was go back to the Planned Parenthood clinic with my test results in hand and, in front of an entire waiting room full of people, demand to know why they had told me that I had cancer and would die. I demanded to know why they had lied.
To this day I cannot believe they did not simply deny that it had happened, but I swear to you, the person in charge actually tried to explain to me that this was the only way they could get people to come in for the biopsy.
By lying to them.
About CANCER AND DEATH.
Because it's way more important that the clinic cover their asses than it is for them to take time to actually explain to patients what the deal is, and then let them draw their own conclusions. Never mind the suffering this put me through - I was literally freaking the fuck out over it the whole time, and this entire episode took a good couple of months to conclude.
So, no, I will never go back into another Planned Parenthood. Ever. Unless, like the woman from Tours*, I have to fend off stray dogs every time I go outside because my infected crotch smells like roadkill.
Anyway, a couple years down the line, I went off the Pill because all forms of it had started to make me sick, psychotic, and fat. No surprise, my bleeding came back. Having no recourse, and because no doctor would see me without insurance or payment up front, I tucked my tail between my legs, swallowed my pride, and went back to my first gynecologist, Dr. Icy Bitch.
Sadly, Dr. Bitch was off on bitch vacation, so I had to see her partner, Dr. Condescending Douchebag. Dr. Douchebag was an elderly man with an air of calm confidence. His demeanor was much more pleasant than Dr. Bitch's, and at first I thought he might be okay.
The trouble came when I tried to explain that I did not want to take the Pill for the bleeding. I wanted to find out what was causing the bleeding in the first place. He seemed completely unable to understand that I didn't want to treat the symptom, but the cause, and doggedly insisted that I go back on the Pill.
I understood his desire to get the bleeding under control, but was still adamant. I would not do it. I explained that I'd been on six different brands at all different doses, and that none of them had worked for me. The slightest amount of extra hormones sent me into an emotional tailspin. Can't have 'em.
"Nonsense," he said. "Ladies these days love the Pill. It's totally safe."
"I don't believe it is. I'm concerned about the health effects of taking it long-term, and in the short term I am unable to take it because it makes me very, very sick."
But he was not listening. He was staring over my shoulder with glassy eyes and a fixed grin. "That's all right, all ladies love the Pill. It doesn't have any side effects, and it's very safe. Most of the ladies who report side effects are just imagining them, or it's because of their monthlies."
If you are saying to yourself "Self, I don't think Naamah was the sort to put up with that, even then," you are right.
I left, toughed out the bleeding, and it stopped again in a couple of months.
And for five years, I did not go to another doctor for anything below the belt. I found that just the idea made me sick to my stomach and shaky as hell.
Nevertheless, in my quest for sterilization, I eventually decided to make the jump. I made an appointment with a doctor a few towns over who had been specially schooled in the type of non-surgical sterilization (Essure) I desired.
I specifically explained to her that I had had bad experiences with doctors before, and would need to be treated especially gently. She said she understood, and I toughed out the initial exams and all the rest in pursuit of my goal. This doctor, Dr. Crazy Fucking-Cunt, was happy to sterilize me, to my shock.
Alas, the procedure did not go as planned, and the implants could not be placed, so we agreed to try an IUD. Now, the reason the placement failed is because of what she discovered during the procedure: I have scar tissue in my uterus, sticking it together. A side effect of this is a high risk of ectopic pregnancy, or other dangerous conditions. It would be, in other words, very, very bad for me to get pregnant. Keep that in mind.
When I came in to get the IUD fitted, I was terrified. I'd heard stories of terrific pain, and so I was especially jumpy, and I was lucky to get to the clinic without throwing up. So I was shaky as hell when I got there, visibly nervous. I check in at the front desk, where they usually tell you right away if you're going to have to give a urine sample. They say nothing, so I take a leak and sit down. But lo! Come to find out, I have to have a pregnancy test before they'll put the IUD in.
Now, I'm a slow pisser. Working up a good head of piss after I've just taken one can take me upwards of two hours. If I'm stressed or scared, it can be harder still. The prospect of waiting to be able to fill the cup, all the while absolutely sick with anticipation, is worse than anything I can imagine. So I do what anyone would have done.
I explained that my husband and I had not had sex since my last piss-test, and when the nurse insisted, I said (not yelled) "I don't believe this. Fucking shit!" in frustration. Then I stalked into the exam room, threw my coat onto the chair, and proceeded to sulk.
Whereupon I was thrown out for "swearing at" the staff and "throwing things."
I apologized for my behavior after I'd had a minute to calm down, and explained my side of the story to Dr. Fucking-Cunt, and explained that I'd wait to be able to pee in the cup.
To my shock, she flatly refused to fit me for an IUD. I cried, I begged, I pleaded. I told her I'd just had a shitty month (because I really had) and that things were bad for me in a lot of parts of my life, and that now that I knew pregnancy could, y'know, kill me, I thought this was important for my health.
Her response? I was in no emotional state to be making a decision about long-term birth control.
Pardon me, but WHAT?
I wanted to be sterilized, and she was okay with that. And yet here I am, seeking a totally reversible form of birth control, and she thinks I'm too stupid or crazy to consent to it?
Furthermore, I'm too stupid or crazy to be on birth control, but I'm not too stupid or crazy to decide to get pregnant, and maybe fucking kill myself in the process?
Things are bad in my life, so she thought I'd what, want to suddenly pop out a kid and make it all magically go away? Even if I could have children, which I apparently can't or at least shouldn't, did she think bringing a child into a situation like that would be a good idea?
WHAT WAS SHE SMOKING?
I understand doctors refusing to treat patients that seem to be dangerous. I totally get that it's meant to legally cover their asses. But to use such a bullshit excuse is the most patronizing claptrap I have ever heard.
All because I swore.
We won't even talk about the difference between "swearing near" and "swearing at," which she and her staff were clearly too self-righteous to apprehend. (And I am still boggled by her aversion to swearwords - had this woman never had a woman in labor screaming obscenities in her ear? Had no patient ever called their ex-husband a complete prick? Did she never have a patient react to something surprising or painful with a "shit" or a "fuck me"? Gynecology is all about cunts and fucking! How the fuck are you going to avoid swearwords?)
So Dr. Fucking-Cunt insisted I leave. When I told her that I felt my health was dependent on getting birth control and not getting pregnant (which it was), she said I should see someone else. When I explained that I thought I had a residual infection from the failed procedure (and as I later discovered, I did), she refused to even give me an exam. She failed, in other words, to provide much-needed care, and put my health in danger. I told her we could reschedule and try again, when we'd both had time to cool off. Nothing doing.
So I went home, absolutely crushed, and was just sick about it for months. Y'all who were around for that will probably remember. It was very bad.
On top of it all, when I called her she refused to answer very specific, neutral questions about my medical record that only she could answer, like "Roughly what percentage of my uterus was scarred over?" and "Given what you saw while you were in there, how likely is it that I could even get pregnant, accidentally, with this going on?" She would not even recommend another doctor to me (I wanted a list so I could avoid them).
I did file a complaint about her with the state licensing board, and pursued all other means of retaliation I could think of (this is Naamah-speak for "please don't go telling me what I should do/should've done, thanks"), but because there was no grievous harm done, nobody apparently cared.
The whole thing just crystallized the loathing I already felt for the profession. I no longer have any real fear of gynecologists, I just fucking hate them with a cold, dead fire because I have yet to have one fail to turn on me, often after I thought we'd established a decent rapport. That hostility, when suppressed, still feels a lot like fear, though, and it makes dealing with gynecological troubles especially touchy for me.
So that's my tale of woe. I know it's not as bad as some of yours, for which I feel profoundly grateful, no offense. I nevertheless hope that nobody reading this ever has as much trouble as I have had. If you carry one thing away from this story, learn this: you are the responsible party for your health care. If the professionals you hire do not treat you with respect, go elsewhere (provided you can) and when you leave, make your displeasure known, preferably in print. You don't have to take their shit. You are entitled to be treated like a human being, no matter how fat and multiply pierced and slutty -- or virginal -- you may be.
There's a happy ending to my tale, at least. Sargon stepped up to the plate after the last dose of fuckery and decided to get snipped.
And the doctor? Dr. Clark Tingleaf of Claremore, Oklahoma? Gave us no shit whatsoever. The experience was so different from what I have had to endure when it is my body and my decision about what you get to do with it, or what I want to do with it, that it wasn't even funny.
It's enough to wonder what it is about the sight of my pussy that drives people insane.
Anyway, I won't openly publish the bad doctors' names because that might be a stupid thing to do, legally. It would also be stupid because, well, I don't want them getting hate mail or dog shit or death threats that might ever be traced back to me. I'm over the "actively seeking retaliation" phase. But if you are a woman living in Oklahoma, and you want to know who to avoid, I will point out that someone has given negative reviews to Drs. Bitch, Douchebag, and Fucking-Cunt at RateMDs.com.
I will issue a blanket warning against Tulsa-area Planned Parenthoods. I cannot recommend them for anything more complicated than prescribing birth control and administering STD and pregnancy testing. Anything more complicated than that, and you are probably better off seeking a second opinion with a wino in a gutter. The wino will at least let you share his MD 20/20 before he punches holes in your cervix with a rusty icepick.
And with that image I leave you, my beautiful dreamers, and bring an end to this subject for now. I wish each and every one of you better luck in the trenches than I have had.
* My favorite limerick goes like this:
There once was a woman from Tours
whose cunt was all covered with sores.
The dogs in the street
wouldn't eat the green meat
that hung in festoons from her drawers.
No dinner that incorporates cooked spinach is complete without it.