As a woman I’ve survived decades of gaslighting by misogynistic male medical malpractitioners who’ve done their level best to convince me that I was not nearly as badly hurt and/or in pain as I claimed to be.
This from the Y chromosomes who require a fainting couch, a blanket, and hot soup should they suffer even the faintest hint of a mild cold.
Tell me again how shoving that cold speculum six miles up into my nether regions and winching it open like you’re using the jaws of life to extract a patient from a crashed car is COMPLETELY FUCKING PAINLESS when your version of the species needs three days off and Vicodin for an outpatient vasectomy? I’ll wait.
If I sound overly frustrated … it’s because I am.
In my 40-some-odd-year history, I’ve had primarily male doctors tell an assortment of hypocritical Hippocratic nonsense. With a straight face, natch:
That I had not chipped a bone in my ankle (despite the bone chip being SO VISIBLE ON THE X-RAY THAT IT COULD BE SEEN FROM SPACE). The doctor said, and I quote from what’s been burned in my brain for the past 15 years, “the only thing you need to heal is the tincture of time.” Yes. Time and a competent fucking doctor, you useless bag of meat. Two doctors and five months later, I had surgery to remove the offending bone chip. Which, shockingly, also eliminated the pain and swelling I’d been experiencing in my ankle. Weird how that works.
That I could simply NOT be experiencing the amount of jaw/tooth pain I claimed to be because they’d given me ‘plenty’ of Novocain. My dude: I can hear AND feel you scraping around on my bones with that tiny metal shoehorn in your hand. Trust me. I’m not asking for more pain meds because I enjoy drooling out of the left side of my face. MY FACE IS LITERALLY SPASMING FROM THE PAIN. Twenty years later, I finally have proof (thank you Genomind) that my body is a hyper-processor of sedatives and/or anesthetic meds.
The skeptical “OK” from the ER doctor when, after dislocating my elbow, I told him that I didn’t sedate easily. And since I didn’t want to feel him yanking the bones back into alignment, he might want to start with a higher-than-normal Propofol dose. After my subconscious spent the first five minutes of the procedure loudly swearing at him (I so wish I had audio of this, but alas, I only have text-based medical records), he had to up the dose. Twice. Afterward, he told me that in his 20-plus years he’s only had 2 patients stop breathing due to high doses of Propofol: One person had half the dose I had. The other had a third of the dose I had. Not to say I told you so, but - no shit, doc.
When I asked for Xanax or something similar prior to my IUD removal and replacement: “Can you tell me why you think you'd need that?” How about “because you’re dilating my lady bits, ripping a plastic component out of my uterus, then shoving a new one back in? Because last time I almost passed out from the pain and I have zero desire to do that again? Are you fucking kidding me?”
When I developed plantar fasciitis and the podiatrist simply cocked his head at me asked if I’d tried stretching. NOPE, ASSHAT. NEVER OCCURRED TO ME. WHAT A NOVEL FUCKING IDEA. God forbid you take my pain seriously and suggest some kind of medical intervention from this millennium.
Meanwhile the current medical malfeasance-to-be revolves around my hip, which is currently not revolving in the (painless) manner in which it should be, and my insurance provider rejecting my claim for services because it’s using an outsourced and probably AI-powered review process that thinks I need an X-ray first.
What did I do? Great question. I think “being 43” is not the correct answer but it’s the only one I have.
I didn’t fall. Or trip. Or strain myself doing exercise. I didn’t get hit, kicked or otherwise bludgeoned.
I just woke up and it hurt. Which, 43. Obviously.
Sometimes I can’t walk without stabbing pains in my inner hip. If I move my leg the wrong direction, it doubles me over in pain. If I try swimming, it clicks.
And having pulled my groin and my hamstring at various times in my life, I know it’s neither of those. Nor is it an IT band issue. It’s just a persistent, aching, sometimes excruciating problem that I refuse to tolerate for any longer than I have to.
My doctor - one who actually listens to me, and whom I pay for out of pocket because my insurance company couldn’t possibly be troubled to cover an in-network professional who has any brains whatsoever - recommended an MRI.
Because whatever’s wrong is clearly some kind of soft tissue issue. Not bone. Hence MRI, not X-ray.
My insurance company denied the claim saying I needed an X-ray first. Of course. Because so many soft-tissue injuries show up on X-rays. Even if I jump through the idiotic insurance hoops, there’s no guarantee they’d order an MRI. If nothing shows up, the logical next options are nothing (because nothing’s there in the X-ray) or an MRI (which makes more sense in the first place anyway). Either way it takes me more time and potentially costs the insurance company more money, which is ironic given how fixated they are on cutting costs and turning a profit. I’d love to know whether a man with this same issue and doctor’s order would have his claim denied.
But since I’m sick of having my health and wellbeing second-guessed, I’m getting an MRI anyway. One that may or may not be covered by my insurance depending on how successful my doctor is in calling and appealing the denial to a physician reviewer. Or resubmitting my claim with additional information to a third-party reviewer. Or, failing both those options, submitting a CLINICAL APPEAL MYSELF.
Stay tuned, my friends, for the next installment of this engrossing medical drama. Will my MRI be covered? Will a qualified radiologist review my MRI or will they just see the F on my chart and label my issue as some sort of perimenopausal/hormonal/hypochondria-type situation?