Operating theatre of the absurd, part one
Annnnnd right out of the let's-start-blogging-again gate, smack into thorny issues of TMI.
Not terribly long after that last post, I underwent surgery. Lady-part issues. Sort of.
Since my medical anthropology posts (no link back; feeling lazy) are among the most popular, here's what happened. Ish.
Around about July, during my medical clearance for permission to go to another country with far more efficient and advanced medical care than our own, the company's nurse practitioner, a rather stout and unpleasant woman who had earlier in the exam pronounced me "obese" (pot; kettle, sweetheart?) noted some minor unusualishness in me, uterinely speaking, and demanded I make a further consultation appointment with a gynecologist.
Ok, here's the thing: I knew, absolutely knew, that this unusualness was in fact perfectly (cyclically) usual for me. But. I was overdue for that sort of GYN appointment anyway, and, hey, this way my employer would pick up the not-insignificant deductible I'd otherwise have to pay.
In retrospect? Not such a smart way to do things.
So, not having a preferred physician, I picked one off the internet on the basis of (1) sex (more on that in a mo') and (2) ratings.
Lesson 1: Small-n ratings are worse than useless; they're insidious.
Doctor #1 kept me waiting for precisely 88 minutes. I was then ushered into an exam room that wouldn't have been considered particularly clean in Mumbai (actual dust bunnies) and barked at for five minutes (which was the total length of time with said physician) by an aggressively condescending doctor who cut short my questions and explanations and just told me to come back in two days for an ultrasound with someone else. I considered storming out in a huff, but (1) figured it'd just take one more visit to get everything resolved and just get my damn clearance already, and (2) I'd already waited six weeks for this doctor's "earliest appointment" (which just made getting this five-minute crumb all the more aggravating) and would have to get a medical reauthorization to consult with anyone else after so much time had elapsed, and, really, does anyone willingly enter into the morass of medical bureaucracy?
Lesson 2: Trust your instincts. No, really.
Visit number two to doctor #1 involved waiting for 93 minutes after my appointment time. With the requisite (for an ultrasound) two liters of water in my bladder. Which I'm pretty sure is against the Geneva Convention.
The harried technician pointed to an ominously dark spot on the screen and informed me that I had a dermoid ovarian cyst. (Yes, note well the jump in body-part geography: the previous uterine abnormality had miraculously resolved, just as it does every month.)
Lesson 3: Don't google "dermoid cyst."
The dermoid cyst is, as I understand it, sort of an egg gone awry. It contains differentiated cells, such as hair, teeth, and eye (do I need to repeat the "no googling"? It's for your own good). One reference called it "the body's attempt to reproduce through parthenogenesis." Which, actually, did so sound like something my body would try to do.
After getting retraumatized by doctor #1 for an additional three minutes ("these are your options! Do you understand? Do you understand? Repeat them back to me!"), I decided: screw the deductible; I don't want this person coming anywhere near me with a scalpel. (Visions of receiving speed surgery from unscrubbed hands, after waiting 90 minutes, probably with the anesthesia wearing off...)
Though they'd steered me wrong to start with, with no other basis for choosing a doctor, I returned to the internet ratings. I also quietly dropped my requirement that the gynecologist be female.
Lesson 4: I'm really pretty ashamed I ever made sex a selection criterion in my decision. And, yeah, it is unlike me. Can we just move on?
Doctor #2 apologized for the five minutes I had to wait. He reviewed my file with me -- using multisyllabic words and actual medical terminology -- and suggested a repeat ultrasound. Just as I was starting to grumble about having to book another appointment, he ushered me into the (very clean) ultrasound room, and started to get set up. Wait, hang on: the two liters of liquid? He shrugged. "Not really necessary."
Doc Two -- at this point, in my mind, my doc -- confirmed some sort of menacing ovarian shadow, likely dermoid, and walked me through the remaining diagnostic steps, which included some scary ones to assess the chance of cancer, as well as the surgery I'd need to remove my evil little mini-me (which, by this point, I'd christened "Wilson"), who was beginning to cause me some pain.
The hospital, of course, told me their "earliest opening" was in eight weeks, which brings us up to December.
(More to come.)
Not terribly long after that last post, I underwent surgery. Lady-part issues. Sort of.
Since my medical anthropology posts (no link back; feeling lazy) are among the most popular, here's what happened. Ish.
Around about July, during my medical clearance for permission to go to another country with far more efficient and advanced medical care than our own, the company's nurse practitioner, a rather stout and unpleasant woman who had earlier in the exam pronounced me "obese" (pot; kettle, sweetheart?) noted some minor unusualishness in me, uterinely speaking, and demanded I make a further consultation appointment with a gynecologist.
Ok, here's the thing: I knew, absolutely knew, that this unusualness was in fact perfectly (cyclically) usual for me. But. I was overdue for that sort of GYN appointment anyway, and, hey, this way my employer would pick up the not-insignificant deductible I'd otherwise have to pay.
In retrospect? Not such a smart way to do things.
So, not having a preferred physician, I picked one off the internet on the basis of (1) sex (more on that in a mo') and (2) ratings.
Lesson 1: Small-n ratings are worse than useless; they're insidious.
Doctor #1 kept me waiting for precisely 88 minutes. I was then ushered into an exam room that wouldn't have been considered particularly clean in Mumbai (actual dust bunnies) and barked at for five minutes (which was the total length of time with said physician) by an aggressively condescending doctor who cut short my questions and explanations and just told me to come back in two days for an ultrasound with someone else. I considered storming out in a huff, but (1) figured it'd just take one more visit to get everything resolved and just get my damn clearance already, and (2) I'd already waited six weeks for this doctor's "earliest appointment" (which just made getting this five-minute crumb all the more aggravating) and would have to get a medical reauthorization to consult with anyone else after so much time had elapsed, and, really, does anyone willingly enter into the morass of medical bureaucracy?
Lesson 2: Trust your instincts. No, really.
Visit number two to doctor #1 involved waiting for 93 minutes after my appointment time. With the requisite (for an ultrasound) two liters of water in my bladder. Which I'm pretty sure is against the Geneva Convention.
The harried technician pointed to an ominously dark spot on the screen and informed me that I had a dermoid ovarian cyst. (Yes, note well the jump in body-part geography: the previous uterine abnormality had miraculously resolved, just as it does every month.)
Lesson 3: Don't google "dermoid cyst."
The dermoid cyst is, as I understand it, sort of an egg gone awry. It contains differentiated cells, such as hair, teeth, and eye (do I need to repeat the "no googling"? It's for your own good). One reference called it "the body's attempt to reproduce through parthenogenesis." Which, actually, did so sound like something my body would try to do.
After getting retraumatized by doctor #1 for an additional three minutes ("these are your options! Do you understand? Do you understand? Repeat them back to me!"), I decided: screw the deductible; I don't want this person coming anywhere near me with a scalpel. (Visions of receiving speed surgery from unscrubbed hands, after waiting 90 minutes, probably with the anesthesia wearing off...)
Though they'd steered me wrong to start with, with no other basis for choosing a doctor, I returned to the internet ratings. I also quietly dropped my requirement that the gynecologist be female.
Lesson 4: I'm really pretty ashamed I ever made sex a selection criterion in my decision. And, yeah, it is unlike me. Can we just move on?
Doctor #2 apologized for the five minutes I had to wait. He reviewed my file with me -- using multisyllabic words and actual medical terminology -- and suggested a repeat ultrasound. Just as I was starting to grumble about having to book another appointment, he ushered me into the (very clean) ultrasound room, and started to get set up. Wait, hang on: the two liters of liquid? He shrugged. "Not really necessary."
Doc Two -- at this point, in my mind, my doc -- confirmed some sort of menacing ovarian shadow, likely dermoid, and walked me through the remaining diagnostic steps, which included some scary ones to assess the chance of cancer, as well as the surgery I'd need to remove my evil little mini-me (which, by this point, I'd christened "Wilson"), who was beginning to cause me some pain.
The hospital, of course, told me their "earliest opening" was in eight weeks, which brings us up to December.
(More to come.)
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