Surgery is an ugly thing. Years ago, at a very young age, I began developing severe pelvic pain and female related problems, which is hereditary in my family. On my eighteenth birthday my doctors recommended I undergo a laparoscopy, a surgical procedure used to test and treat many conditions. The dilemma with having this surgery was that the laparoscopy was the only way to eliminate certain diagnoses: like endometriosis. Nervous about going under the knife a third time, I avoided the issue figuring the pain wasn’t that intolerable and an x-ray or sonogram would suffice.
Three years later, I became ill. One morning I woke very worried due to extreme abdominal pain and vomiting that reminded me of food poisoning. Except hours passed, and the symptoms continued so I decided to visit the St Josef’s Candler Immediate Care facility on the south side of town.
After checking myself in, I sat in the waiting room for thirty minutes, only to wait some more once my name was called back to see the doctor. I discovered over the next six months the waiting period was often the worst part of a doctor’s appointment. You are one of hundreds of patients to this doctor: a dot.
The doctor’s test results that day revealed blood in my urine and assumingly this was causing the abdominal pain. I was then prescribed some antibiotics and the nurse drew my blood for further testing. Having my blood drawn became like second nature during my illness too, seeing that I ‘donated’ enough fluids to fill a truck.
Disturbed by the news, I phoned my local gynecologist for an appointment and took the advice of the doctor at immediate care. To no surprise, it took one month for an office visit with my OBGYN specialist, so, for the next month I tried to ignore lower abdominal pain. Two weeks later, after a couple glasses of wine, the following morning I experienced the same shooting pain as I had two weeks prior. Wanting to forget my doctor’s advice three years ago, I tried very hard to smother the fact this could be female related.
Another fourteen days later, my specialist appointment date arrived and a series of tests were performed, on numerous occasions, including pleasant things like ultrasounds, x-rays, sonograms, pelvic exams, blood tests, and many, many medical bills. When the doctor read my file and spoke with me about my history, she strongly advised I quit smoking cigarettes, drinking caffeine and consuming large amounts of alcohol as soon as possible. I was also asked to limit any sexual activity until the test results returned.
A few days later I was called back to the hospital for a visit with the doctor to personally discuss my results. Suddenly, I became very nervous and wished I had just received my letter of good standings in the mail like all the years before instead of this phone call. My specialist sat me down in her office and said I had Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, which in short, is a disease that overproduces activity in a woman’s reproductive system which can cause symptoms like pelvic pain, irregular periods, infertility and cysts. She also showed me ultrasound photos that exposed many small cysts and lesions around my right ovary.
At this point, I needed to visit the urologist and gastronologists specialty office as well to eliminate other causes of pelvic pain, since the cysts were not life threatening. Another month of waiting, like one of hundreds of millions of people in the world who suffer in pain while waiting to see the doctor or to be healed.
The urologist’s office was awkward because once you’re admitted; patients are required to travel around the facility with urine cups in the presence of other strangers. Usually at the hospitals and specialty offices, I was one of the youngest women in sight and this always made me uneasy. I felt like time was passing me by. The urologist prescribed six weeks worth of antibiotics to heal the constant problem of red blood cells in my urine; it hadn’t ceased since my first day ill in case of infection. An awful procedure called a cystoscopy was performed as well, where they insert a scope and camera through one’s urethra into the bladder to look for disease or damage. Thinking back on that morning, I remember being horrified by my doctor’s suggestion I watch the television screen that was receiving images from the scope inside my bladder to ease my anxiety. And ironically, looking at the monitor made me want to faint. Somehow, watching surgery and the internal organs of a person on television just didn’t prepare me to gaze at my own inner self.
To my demise, I didn’t ask beforehand about local anesthesia for the cystoscopy so I endured the procedure without sedation, which I do not recommend to anyone such as myself who enjoys their personal space. Always ask your doctor questions beforehand, seek out detailed information about each procedure and medicine, and learn to practice deep breathing and try to remain patient through an illness.
Now that the urologist had ruled out any troubles with my urinary tract and I was feeling a bit violated and disturbed by my first physical from a male doctor, it was time to submit my body for more examinations. A gastronologist was necessary to investigate my gastrointestinal tract, and the word alone made me feel uneasy. This whole affair thus far felt invasive, but I attempted to be cordial since I admire the medical field and how hard they work. Be reminded, there are those who taint the medical profession, and like everything else they is always a bad seed to pollute a good crop.
My gastronologist appeared honest and sincere. He was very direct and thorough, and his staff was organized and helpful. Even the two procedures, an endoscope and a colonoscopy, were all right, despite the circumstances of my health. I remember laughing on the table before they put me to sleep thinking they were nice people. But perhaps this will due to the sedation and the drugs that made everything seem alright.
During all this melancholy illness, I was prescribed an abundance of perscriptions from three gynecologists, at least fives trips to the minor ER, the urologists office, the gastrnologist’s office, two visits to the emergency room and an internal specialist. I refused to swallow most of the pills, and I felt like many physicians were distributing medicinal drugs in substitution of service and healing. Just numb the problem, and give us your money, we’ll fix you eventually. I was taking pills for nausea and possessed three forms of pain pill narcotics for the unbearable pain that continued to worsen. It was difficult to think in such pain, almost impossible to converse sometimes and life felt miserable as my head and my body was now feeling poor. But you must not get so discouraged when undergoing a time of sickness; it only prolongs the healing process.
Eventually, all the drugs stopped working and I began taking a higher dose of medicine as prescribed by the doctors. But then, I began to feel anxiety like never before and sleep was at a minimal. I lost my appetite completely. Trying to swallow saltine crackers sometimes made me gag. My weight, went from a mere 122 lbs to 114 lbs in a little over a week. I then began losing about two lbs a week. And taking into account I’m only 5′5″ in height, the weight loss was showing and the pallor was white and dismal . But even after extreme weight loss, my gastronologist didn’t seem to have any answers or aide to my dilemma; instead, he sent me to an internal medicine doctor. When I arrived the internalist asked me if I knew why I was there, and assuming it had been for my tests I realized I truly didn’t. The doctor suggested the pain was all in my head, and that often he and other doctors like my gastronologist work together to treat patients such as myself. That I was one of many depressed people. He felt that I had no real physical problems, and didn’t look like a candidate for Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome because I was underweight and my problems were purely psychiatric, despite any medical records that contested his theory. I left that day with a free month worth of anti-depressants that went directly to my trashcan.
I cried on the drive home from the doctor that day to my boyfriend’s house who was helping take care of me at the time. I weighed 110 lbs, weak as ever, and in constant pain that aggravated my life, my job and my school. I had already been to the emergency room once before and they had also limited any possibilities as well in regards to my vomiting, nausea and anxiety. The only issue discovered during my first trip to the emergency room was my allergic reaction to morphine that I was given through an IV. The only time I was without pain was after being given medicine through an IV, and even that was difficult because I had thin veins that were dehydrated at the time causing bruising and hematomas.
It was like no one knew how to work the machines, give a diagnosis, or stop the pain. I even began to wonder if I was losing my mind. I phoned my gastronologist to speak about my concern at the internalist’s office and express my disappointment that he sent me to another doctor who suggested my problems were psychiatric. My specialist then told me if the internal medicine doctor felt I was crazy, then he would be prone to agree, and could no longer serve as my gastronologist, but would be happy to transfer my records elsewhere. I was outraged. I felt small being so young and sick with doctors who didn’t help you even if you were thinning away. I was discouraged and had trouble connecting with anyone. Generally, these kinds of female problems occurr in women 30 and older, young adults my age were more concerned with themselves than the health of another, or they didn’t’ know how to respond which was frustrating in itself.
Five days later, I was vomiting green bile for hours and took a second trip to the Emergency Room. Dreading a twelve-hour wait like before, to my benefit no one was there at 5:00 AM and the nurses got me hooked onto an IV in no time. Four hours later, after many repeated tests that several doctors had performed before, I was told I had an additional cyst on my left fallopian tube and to desist taking any narcotic pain pills, as I was allergic to them. Suddenly, the allergic reaction to morphine made sense and the next day, late in the afternoon, all my vomiting and nausea desisted and I only had to battle my stiffening pain.
Finally, after six months of waiting, my laparoscopy date was scheduled for August and I began to feel scared for the first time about my surgery. I had to force myself to deep breathe and remain calm and patient during the last few days prior to operation. The pain was consuming my thoughts and in a way I was looking forward to the procedure because the surgery meant the removal of pain. The morning of the big day in the operating room, I remember being very cold and disorientened like in a fog or a dream, lying on a hard table, with at least eight people running around with tools in their hands, speaking in medical terms and bright lights overhead before me shadowed everything together like and a tunnel of light and I fell asleep. I woke about two hours later, in a recovery room with two incisions, no cysts and void of pain medicine to dull the wounds.
Almost two months now past my surgery date, I feel near a hundred percent recovered, and one step behind. Every now and again while I’m dancing, working out, shooting pool or resting, the pain returns and my abdomen feels tender. But this is apart of the healing process, and I’m grateful for finding doctors who treated my problems and relieved my pain. Although, I must now learn how to cope and tolerate with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome and manage pelvic pain from time to time. Some of my symptoms that were a bit more personal were not explained by the cysts in my reproductive areas. My doctor and I anticipated the possibility of Endometriosis, but she also warned me sometimes women’s pain in unexplainable. Fortunately, there was no evidence to indicate such a problem, and I am blessed not to have Endometriosis, which is a painful chronic disease. Nonetheless, I fight the urge to feel disheartened and cheated by the fact all my questions were not answered and the pain will never be fully gone. It will just have to become apart of me.
I wonder now how I would have managed to pay for all this without medical insurance and the financial assitance of my family. Somtimes thinking of all those who cannot afford to seek help makes me doleful. And it took me all this grief to remember that overlooking problems is always ineffective, and ignored troubles will surely seek you out. Looking at the statistics, most women who undergo these problems range ages 30 and older, which stripped almost a decade of ‘good health’ away from my youth. Even though I was forced to change some habits of my lifestyle, and must tolerate a condition from now on, I am grateful that my health was not far worse. Keep in mind the human body is not indestructible, no matter the age or gender, and sometimes illness may arise to those we least expected. Cherish your health, preserve your body and mind and take care of the skin you’re in so not instigate misfortune of health.
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