Tuesday – Well, Woman? Why Not?
Feb. 1st, 2011 11:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
I had that appointment today, the one I consider to be only slightly less appealing than the idea of a root canal: my annual OB/Gyn Well Woman exam. It went well.
I’m at a new job, so I went to a new doctor. I have no loyalty to OB/Gyns, at least not since I ditched the one that delivered my son. I set my appointments based on how close they are to where I go and whether I think I can get the visit during the time allotted to me for lunch (usually it runs a bit over with travel time, but not by much). All of my doctors work for a large clinic with satellite offices around Houston, so I find the nearest satellite, look on the website for the MDs who work there, and pick one who doesn’t look too scary. My only requirement for an OB/Gyn, besides proximity to my office, is sex: the doctor telling me I am a well woman must be a woman. I wouldn’t trust my car to a mechanic who had never driven a car of his own – I don’t care how many other peoples’ cars he has sat in. By this same logic, I don’t want anyone checking out my vagina who does not know what it feels like to have one.
Is this biased of me? Sure it is. But that’s how I feel. My endocrinologist, if it matters, is a man. He and I both have a pancreas. My eye doctor is also a man, and we both have two eyes on the front our respective faces. My crotch doc has to have the same kind of crotch as me. That’s my rule.
This new one was younger than me and very perky, but I forgave her for both of these things. She was friendly and professional, also, and quick about her business. We got into a debate on one topic, but it ended in a stalemate.
“When was your last mammogram?” she asked.
“I haven’t had one.”
“I’m going to put in an order for you to have one, then.”
I shrugged.
“They recommend that you have them once a year, starting at the age of 40,” she said, her perkiness giving way to earnestness.
“The last study I read said that you can put it off for a few more years if you want to,”
“That’s not what it said.”
“That’s what I read.”
“American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists still recommends an annual mammogram starting at the age of 40.”
I shrugged again, and smiled faintly. “I’ll think about it.”
She sighed. “I’ll put in the order for you, and where you decide to actually schedule one is up to you. Since you don’t have any cancer in your family, I guess I’m not too worried. I do recommend that you get one, though.”
“Okay,” I said, meaning that I understood her, not that I was going to do what she wanted. The 15-year-old girl inside of me, the ghost of my adolescent self, was calling the shots at this point.
Did I forget to check the family history of cancer box on the patient information sheet I filled out? I mentioned my grandmother who died of high blood pressure. I didn’t recall seeing the cancer question. My brain must have blinded my eye to it. I should have corrected her when she made the statement, but I didn’t want to get into it with her. She would have gone from earnest to insistent if I mentioned that my mother died of cancer; that when I was 12 and my mom was 48, she found a lump in her breast that turned out to be a malignant lymph node. Technically speaking, I think this means that my mother’s cancer was lymphoma, but because it was first noticed in her breast it gets classified as breast cancer. The prognosis for lymphoma is not a good as the prognosis for breast cancer.
So logically, this should make me be diligent about things like mammograms. But this isn’t about logic. It is about the 15-year-old girl in my head, the one who was still reeling from the loss of her mother, who is terrified of mammograms. Logically, I know this test can find the disease at an early where it is most easily treated. But that girl in my head is crying, sobbing so loud that she drowns out the voice of any logic. To her, the test means that I will die and not see my child grow up. To her (and I can’t talk sense to her, she is only 15, and you know how kids are at that age) scheduling a mammogram is the same thing as planning my funeral.
The very idea of scheduling a mammogram paralyzes me. I would not be able to speak on the phone to make the appointment. Even if I managed to, I would not be able to drive to it once I did. Assuming I could make it out of the house, I would sit in my car and sob instead of driving. This is a post traumatic sort of response, and all the logic and good sense in the world can’t override it. That silly teenaged girl’s tears are running down my face, and until I can calm her down and get her to listen to reason, I will have to put this off for a few years yet.
Even if it causes my perky new Gyn doc some chagrin.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
I had that appointment today, the one I consider to be only slightly less appealing than the idea of a root canal: my annual OB/Gyn Well Woman exam. It went well.
I’m at a new job, so I went to a new doctor. I have no loyalty to OB/Gyns, at least not since I ditched the one that delivered my son. I set my appointments based on how close they are to where I go and whether I think I can get the visit during the time allotted to me for lunch (usually it runs a bit over with travel time, but not by much). All of my doctors work for a large clinic with satellite offices around Houston, so I find the nearest satellite, look on the website for the MDs who work there, and pick one who doesn’t look too scary. My only requirement for an OB/Gyn, besides proximity to my office, is sex: the doctor telling me I am a well woman must be a woman. I wouldn’t trust my car to a mechanic who had never driven a car of his own – I don’t care how many other peoples’ cars he has sat in. By this same logic, I don’t want anyone checking out my vagina who does not know what it feels like to have one.
Is this biased of me? Sure it is. But that’s how I feel. My endocrinologist, if it matters, is a man. He and I both have a pancreas. My eye doctor is also a man, and we both have two eyes on the front our respective faces. My crotch doc has to have the same kind of crotch as me. That’s my rule.
This new one was younger than me and very perky, but I forgave her for both of these things. She was friendly and professional, also, and quick about her business. We got into a debate on one topic, but it ended in a stalemate.
“When was your last mammogram?” she asked.
“I haven’t had one.”
“I’m going to put in an order for you to have one, then.”
I shrugged.
“They recommend that you have them once a year, starting at the age of 40,” she said, her perkiness giving way to earnestness.
“The last study I read said that you can put it off for a few more years if you want to,”
“That’s not what it said.”
“That’s what I read.”
“American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists still recommends an annual mammogram starting at the age of 40.”
I shrugged again, and smiled faintly. “I’ll think about it.”
She sighed. “I’ll put in the order for you, and where you decide to actually schedule one is up to you. Since you don’t have any cancer in your family, I guess I’m not too worried. I do recommend that you get one, though.”
“Okay,” I said, meaning that I understood her, not that I was going to do what she wanted. The 15-year-old girl inside of me, the ghost of my adolescent self, was calling the shots at this point.
Did I forget to check the family history of cancer box on the patient information sheet I filled out? I mentioned my grandmother who died of high blood pressure. I didn’t recall seeing the cancer question. My brain must have blinded my eye to it. I should have corrected her when she made the statement, but I didn’t want to get into it with her. She would have gone from earnest to insistent if I mentioned that my mother died of cancer; that when I was 12 and my mom was 48, she found a lump in her breast that turned out to be a malignant lymph node. Technically speaking, I think this means that my mother’s cancer was lymphoma, but because it was first noticed in her breast it gets classified as breast cancer. The prognosis for lymphoma is not a good as the prognosis for breast cancer.
So logically, this should make me be diligent about things like mammograms. But this isn’t about logic. It is about the 15-year-old girl in my head, the one who was still reeling from the loss of her mother, who is terrified of mammograms. Logically, I know this test can find the disease at an early where it is most easily treated. But that girl in my head is crying, sobbing so loud that she drowns out the voice of any logic. To her, the test means that I will die and not see my child grow up. To her (and I can’t talk sense to her, she is only 15, and you know how kids are at that age) scheduling a mammogram is the same thing as planning my funeral.
The very idea of scheduling a mammogram paralyzes me. I would not be able to speak on the phone to make the appointment. Even if I managed to, I would not be able to drive to it once I did. Assuming I could make it out of the house, I would sit in my car and sob instead of driving. This is a post traumatic sort of response, and all the logic and good sense in the world can’t override it. That silly teenaged girl’s tears are running down my face, and until I can calm her down and get her to listen to reason, I will have to put this off for a few years yet.
Even if it causes my perky new Gyn doc some chagrin.
