Why doctors are bad for my health

I went to the lady-bits doctor last week. It was the first time I've been since my post-D&C appointment in which I was declared physically healthy and sent on my un-merry way. I was due for a mammogram and, since it's been almost a year since my last OB appointment, I scheduled an annual exam while I was at it. Figured I'd get all the ugly stuff done at once. (Have I mentioned how much I hate doctors?)

It was difficult being back at the OB's office -- I won't lie. This is a particularly wonderful office (for an HMO), in a clinic that is associated with a hospital where they love midwives. Love. Them. Therefore, the staff is as nice as they can be, and the focus of the office, understandably, is on You And Your Baby. Which means, as any IF vet will testify, that there are (oh, the horror!) posters all over the walls of Your Uterus, and Your Baby In Your Uterus and, if you've already been lucky enough to have your baby, helpful suggestions about How To Take Care of Your Body Now That You've Had Your Baby. And if you happen to have miscarried a baby at home, you look at the posters that show a fetus developing over the 9-month cycle and you find the appropriate month and you think to yourself "yes, that's about the right size. That's what it looked like."

You can see where this is headed.

Wonder Doctor, who saw me through the aftermath of my miscarriage (after Doctor From Hell botched the handling of the actual miscarriage itself), was not available. Doc Wonder is, after all, the head of the department, and is apparently booked up solid until, oh, a year from now. Sigh.

I saw another doctor -- or perhaps she was a CPM. Regardless, she was in her 50s, cheerful as she could be, and a bit bemused as to why I was there. Had she met me before? No, this is the first time. Have I seen someone else in the office? Yes, I saw Wonder Doctor last time.

Pause.

"Oh." Looks through my file on the computer. "I see she did a post-op visit with you."

Yes, I had a miscarriage and a D&C and ... <sniff, sob, sniff> Goddamn it. I hate crying in doctors' offices. <sniff>

"I'm sorry." Pause. You can see her doing the math ... ("let's see, if she's 44 now, and she had the miscarriage last summer, she was 42 when she got pregnant, 43 when she miscarried -- damn, that's old ... there must have been IF involved.")

"You'd been trying for a long time?"

Yes. <sob sniff> But it's okay because we adopted and ... I tell her about Squeaker. Really, we're okay. (Hold on a second. Why do I use "we"? This is my medical appointment ... but IF is such a "we" event that now even a regular OB appointment somehow becomes about "us" ... and why do I feel the need to reassure her about our relationship anyway? oh lord, she's giving me the sideways eyeball ... she really thinks I'm nuts.)

And sure enough, at this point, you can see her readjusting her whole approach to the visit. Up until now, I had been a normal patient, here for an annual exam. Now I was Fragile Patient To Be Handled With Care. (By the way, I hate hate hate being Fragile in any context. It's annoying. I hate how people treat you when they see you that way. I want to be Tough Bitch Who Can Handle Anything and Doesn't Need to Be "Handled". So here I am in nothing but a hospital gown, explaining myself again to yet another New Doctor when really I'd rather be anywhere else doing anything else, and I'm mad about being sad, and sad about being sad, which makes me madder...)

She decides that it might be good to skip over the obvious IF portion of my health history, since it is clearly not something that will induce a Smiling Relaxed Patient. She jumps straight to the obvious alternative: "Any cancer in your family history?"

Yes, a cousin had breast cancer in her 30s.

Doctor gives me a Look. "Anyone else?" Grandmother liver cancer, grandfather adult leukemia ... Again, she gives me the Look.

"Any heart disease?" Not that I know of. "High blood pressure?" Yes. I list the names. "Osteoporosis?" Yes, my mother and her mother. Again, Doctor gives me a Look. "And how is your father's health?"

I burst out laughing. By now, Doctor is looking at me like I'm not only quite likely to die any minute, but I might be crazy as well. Which very well could be. Dad, you see, is off his meds, and is currently taking a bit of a forced vacation in a facility where folks who go off their meds go for a rest and re-medication (whether they like it or not). He's been in and out of places like this for the past 20 years. In between, he seems relatively healthy, all things considered. I explain this to the doctor.

"And what do you do for a living?" Lawyer. Again with the Look. "Are you working full-time?" Basically, yes.

"So what do you do for fun?" I can tell this is a loaded question. Um ... Truth be told, there hasn't been a lot of purposeful "fun" lately ... birthday parties and dinners I barely remember because I was so tired while I was there, jogging or walking that is more because I need to blow off steam than because I have time to exercise. I even gave away some of my favorite yoga videos to another new mom, because I knew she'd use them long before I ever got back to them. I begin to lie like a rug ... Yoga, hiking, jogging ...

"Good, you need to be doing weight-bearing exercises to stave off the osteoporosis. And you'll notice as you head towards menopause that your periods will get heavier ..."

At which point I practically begin wailing. <SOB SOB SOB SOB sniff ... sniff>

"Oh, I'm sorry ... but I usually try to tell moms about this before they get there ... should I stop?" Oh no, I tell her. By all means, keep on going. Do your worst.

And so she does. Then we chit-chatted about very silly stuff for several more minutes, she did the exam, and off I went. And yes, I bawled all the way home.

============

The first time I stepped foot in the offices of this particular HMO, the Doctor From Hell had used the words "donor eggs" almost immediately. The last time I was in this office, I was mourning the death of what I knew would be my only biological child. And this week, I spent more time than I ever cared to discussing menopause.

See, the problem is, I'm not ready for that yet. I still know exactly when I ovulate, and I still think about "if we did the deed tonight, it would be 5 days before, and well, it worked once so it could work again ..." Except that I'm forty-fucking-four now, and if I so much as mention the possibility of another miracle pregnancy, every scientist in the world is going to look at me with pity and suggest that I get some counseling or get back on my meds. The realistic part of me knows it ain't gonna happen. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't be allowed to have my fantasies. I really didn't need the cold hard voice of Reality, masquerading as a Perfectly Nice But Clueless Doctor shoving what I already know to be the truth down my throat. It's enough to make a girl just skip the whole medical establishment experience for the next few years, ya know?

My point is, people, you never get over IF. You may decide to remain without children, you may adopt, you may be lucky enough to give birth to one, two, perhaps three babies in a scary wondrous litter. But no matter which road is yours, this shit stays with you forever, and comes back to bite you when you least expect it. And medical folks who don't know your history will look at you like you're nuts when your PTSD kicks in. And your relatives will never really understand. And if you're lucky, you've got an online posse to tell the tale to. Because you know they get it, and you know they've got your back.

Comments

[Almamay]

"You never get over IF."

Truer words have never been spoken. Thank you for this post.

[shinejil]

Right on. And PTSD is a good way to describe it. Mine is relatively mild, but it can turn me from rational to absolutely nuts in the space of a few minutes.

I only hope that someday soon, caregivers will realize that this is normal and natural after loss and IF.

[Dawn]

Your story really touched me. You are so right. You never get over IF. I was blessed to have a successful pregnancy through ivf but there are many things that still bring tears to my eyes. Writing this right now my eyes are cloudy.

They say that it happens to a lot of women and don't feel bad or like something is wrong with you. But that's impossible! You have to take it personal, it happened to you. I will always feel that in some way I was broken, because I was.

[Shelli]

oh, you hit a nerve. I am due for my annual as well, and I absolutely HATE going there now.

I have a similar PTSD moment I am going to blog about. I seem to be falling apart lately. Which is so not me. So now I am really facing some tough questions for myself.

Thank you for posting this.

[Michelle]

I am the mother to two beautiful sons. My first I adopted in May 2008 and my second I adopted in March 2009. We have a house full of love and joy and I am so happy that after many failed attempts with IF treatments I have the family I always dreamed of. We just got there a different way than I expected. Thank you for this post. My sister-in-law delivered a healthy baby boy last month and I couldn't bring myself to go to the hospital and visit. Our family just didn't understand and probably never will. I just knew it would be bad for me to go. Thank you for reassuring me that it is normal for old feelings to come back when you least expect it!

[Giantspeedbump]

Hi there, I followed your blog "way back when", left it for a while when your posts became more infrequent, and was super excited to re-visit and see you've adopted. Me too!

You're exactly right about IF not disappearing. I spent the majority of my 30's in an IF fog, and that doesn't go away overnight. Great post.