About a month ago, I started having excruciating pain. You know the 1-10 smiley/frowny face scale at the doctor's office? I only wish I could have seen a 10 from where I was sitting. At one point I ended up at the emergency room and actually consented to a shot for the pain. A shot....you know, with a needle. I don't do needles willingly. Ever. But when you haven't been able to work for 2 weeks, can't sleep, can't sit or stand up without being extremely dizzy, you'll do just about anything for some relief.
Over the last 3 weeks, I have had 3 rounds of blood tests. That's right, more needles. There have been some invasive tests that I'd rather forget. And still no answers.
All this begs the question: Why couldn't I tell anyone?
Usually, my first reaction would be ask my prayer warrior friends to add me to their prayer lists. What could be so bad that I refused to tell even my closest girlfriends? We've been through everything together. There's nothing I can't say to them.
But there is.
Then I realized that for years I have been talking loudly to anyone who will listen about depression. Because of the years that I struggled without knowing what was wrong, and the stigma and isolation that still goes along with mental illness, I decided that I never want anyone to feel that alone if I can help it.
Well, I'm about to do that again with a different illness.
The reason I have been suffering in near silence is because my pain is estrogen related and we don't talk about that in polite society. That's right, my uterus hates me. There's a sentence I never thought I'd put in my blog. But there it is. My doctors still have yet to find what is wrong. The list of possibilities is still very long and still includes cancer. Despite enduring the pain of an endometrial biopsy, cancer still hasn't been ruled out because it wasn't a large enough sample.
Are you kidding me??? I almost passed out from the pain, couldn't move for 2 days without feeling like I was being stabbed, and you're telling me you didn't get a large enough sample to tell me if I'm going to die?
Now, before you mothers start sending me hate mail because the biopsy couldn't be half as painful as childbirth, I would just like to point out that our bodies prepare for that. There is a whole chemical process leading up to it. There's no natural preparation to have a chunk of your womb ripped out of you. There's also a beautiful baby at the end of the childbirth pains to make them all worth it. After the biopsy, all you get are some painkillers, a few days of painful recovery, and lots of empty hours of waiting to find out if you have something that might kill you. And in my case, a repeat of the process in a few weeks.
Four days ago I walked into yet another doctor's office with 2 questions. Do I have cancer? Will I ever be a mother? Type A personalities don't do well with the unknown. But that's all I have. Many questions, no answers, medicines that make me almost sicker than I was before I took them, and no end in sight to the tests ordered by the doctors I am trusting with my life.
How many of our mothers, grandmothers, sisters, daughters, and friends have suffered alone because we're not supposed to talk about "womanly issues"? How many of them have waited until it was too late to get the proper treatment because they were too embarrassed to tell anyone, even their doctor?
Girls, these are medical problems just like anything else. It's time for us to stop being self-conscious or humiliated because it's not the flu or a broken arm. Stand up for yourselves. Take care of your health. Talk to your girlfriends and daughters and neighbors so that they know they are not alone.
Gentlemen, please, for the love of Pete, put aside your awkwardness with the subject for just a little while and be supportive if a woman in your life is facing a health issue that involves a trip to the gynecologist. You don't have to know all the gory details, just don't visibly cringe if she says the word ovaries when she's telling you what the doctor said. It could make the difference between her actually following up with the doctor and sweeping the problem under the rug and pretending everything is fine.
I saw a billboard recently to encourage men to get their check-ups. It said "Thousands of men will die this year of stubbornness." Ladies, let's not follow their example and die of embarrassment.
