CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(From my first period at age 12, I have been having horrible pain with each menstruation. Several months later, the pain is so bad that I can’t stand. My mother is alarmed and takes me to the ED. They suspect appendicitis and operate, only to find a healthy appendix. I am referred to a gynaecologist.)

Gynaecologist #1: “So, I hear you’ve had a bit of a sore tummy, huh?”

Me: “Yes, it really hurts, and I—“

Gynaecologist #1: “Now, [My Name]. You’re grown up now. This is part of being a woman; you just have to put up with it, all right? Take some paracetamol when the pain starts and get on with it, all right?”

(I’m embarrassed to have caused such a fuss and take what he says to heart. For the next 12 years, I put up with horrendous, increasing pain, assuming all women go through it. Every cycle, without fail, I spend a minimum of 12 hours in such pain I am vomiting. It gets so that I am in pain all the time, even when I’m not menstruating. Finally, at 25, I have an epic period of 17 days of vomit-worthy pain. My parents convince me to go to the ED in my new city where I live.

The ED doctors give me a high dose of morphine and check for acute problems, then refer me to a gynaecologist. I am already convinced that this one will think I am wasting his time, too, and begin rehearsing apologies. Finally, I meet the new gynaecologist.)

Gynaecologist #2: “So, I hear you’ve been sore?”

Me: “Yes…” *describes situation*

Gynaecologist #2: “Can I feel your stomach? Hmm. Okay, I’m not going to, but if I pressed hard, would it hurt?”

Me: “Yes.”

Gynaecologist #2: *taking his hand away* “Does it hurt now?”

Me: “Yes.”

(The gynaecologist went a little grim and told me that I needed an operation immediately. He fit me in the following week and ended up excising a LOT of tissue. It turned out that I had a condition that caused infertility if it was untreated, and the main symptom was immense pain. Luckily, the disease hadn’t yet damaged my tubes so I can still conceive naturally. With medication to manage ovulation and possibly more operations should the tissue regrow, I should be completely healthy. Most importantly, I’m not in constant pain. How lucky that I found a doctor who knew that “women troubles” was no longer a proper medical diagnosis!)

(I have a doctor’s appointment on Thursday. On Friday, I get a call from the doctor’s surgery but I miss the call because I am taking a nap, and I don’t wake up until after the surgery has closed. They’re closed all of Saturday and Sunday, so I call back on Monday.)

Receptionist: *goes through her regular greeting*

Me: “Hi. I got a call from your surgery on Friday, but I missed it so I’m just returning the call now.”

Receptionist: “Okay, so, what do you want me to do?”

Me: *stunned pause* “Well, I’d like to know what the call was about. Can you check my records?”

Receptionist: *tuts* “Sure, what’s your name?”

Me: “It’s [My Name].”

Receptionist: “There are no notes on your account about you being called.”

Me: “Uh, okay? So, how do I find out what the call was about?”

Receptionist: “You’ll just have to wait until whoever called you calls again. Goodbye.” *hangs up*

(It’s now Thursday again, six days since my appointment, and I haven’t had a call back. Hopefully, it was nothing important!)

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(I have hypothyroidism, which has been successfully controlled with medication for several years. Over a couple of months, however, I notice that some of my symptoms are returning. I call my doctor, and she says she will do a blood test. I go to her office for the results.)

Doctor: “Your thyroid level is at 4.9.”

(The maximum is 5.)

Me: “Well, no wonder I’ve been feeling sick! That’s very high.”

Doctor: “Oh, no. You’re fine. Five is the top of the normal range. You’re still under that.”

Me: “But a lot of my old symptoms are coming back. I can’t sleep at night, I’m tired during the day, I’m freezing cold all the time—“

Doctor: “You’re under stress. It’s normal.”

Me: “I HAVE GAINED TWENTY POUNDS IN TWO MONTHS!”

Doctor: “Well, you just need to go on a diet.”

Me: “I exercise five days a week, and I eat my fruits and veggies! I don’t feel like myself. I know my body, and I need a medication change!”

Doctor: “Well, I’m not giving you one, because you’re normal.”

(She tells me to exercise more and gives me a vitamin supplement. I fume, but I take it. A couple of months later, I move to a different state. I go in for an appointment with my new doctor.)

New Doctor: “I’ve been reviewing your test results from your previous doctor, and I noticed your thyroid is at 4.9. That’s very high. Are you feeling okay at that number?”

Me: “Not at all! I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept saying it was normal.”

New Doctor: “I’m not surprised. Older guidelines allow it to get that high, but I’ve found that my patients feel better when their thyroid is at 3 or under. I’m going to order some more blood work.”

(The new blood test showed that my number had skyrocketed to a 6. My new doctor changed my medication immediately. It took a year and three medicine changes to get it right. It turned out that my thyroid number had been creeping up for a couple of years, and my old doctor had just ignored it. I’m happy to report that I’m much better now!)

(As a middle-aged female, I’ve acquired more than a few chronic ailments, and each time I’ve changed jobs, I’ve had to change health insurance companies, resulting in having to be under the care of numerous doctors for the same conditions. I’ve been divorced for 14 years, and I’ve always had my own health insurance as a working adult. While calling up yet another new doctor to make yet another “new patient” appointment, I give the friendly lady receptionist my pertinent information. All goes well until she drops this line:)

Receptionist: “And that’s your husband’s insurance, correct?”

(That’s the first and ONLY time I’ve ever been asked that, even when I WAS married — and he didn’t even have insurance. Probably shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did, but there was no way she could have ascertained I was married based on anything I told her. Welcome to the 21st century, friendly lady receptionist.)

Doctor: “This next test is very dangerous for fetuses, so we need to test and make sure you’re not pregnant first.”

Me: “I’m not pregnant.”

Doctor: “Well, sometimes people don’t know that they are.”

Me: “Didn’t we just establish that I have a birth control insert in place to control my period?”

Doctor: “Those aren’t 100% reliable. We need a test.”

Me: “I’m not sexually active. At all. Ever.”

Doctor: *suddenly perplexed* “But you have an insert.”

Me: “Because without it I bled for ten weeks straight out of every twelve for two years. Because I have POCS. Which is why we just spent half this appointment reviewing my last blood results.”

Doctor: “Oh. Right. I forgot.”

Me: “So, can we move onto that test now?”

Doctor: “Which test were you thinking of?”

Me: “…”

Doctor: “…”

Me: “I’m your last appointment at the end of your shift, aren’t I?”

Doctor: *surprised* “How could you possibly know that?”