Doctor Appointments Are Hysterical - Part 2 - Battle Scars of an Aging Woman!

Battle Scars of a Fabulous Aging Woman!

Attempting to take a sexy selfie!

Old doctor/surgery war stories and battle scars of an aging woman. I wanted to have a Part 2 of my female related medical and surgical procedures gone just a tad awry. Not quite as funny as Part 1 – but you’ll definitely see a pattern emerging.

As an old(er) person, I am beginning to understand the fascination that my elders have about all their aches, pains and ailments. And go into obsessive detail about each doctor visit. What was once a compact vitamin organizer increases in size exponentially along with your doctor appointments, drugs and wrinkles. If I wasn’t so freaked out at my own desire to talk about my doctor appointments and ailments (ad nauseam), I’d find this phenomenon quite interesting. I'm also starting to understand older people's obsession about reading the obits every single day. Obviously, praying that their name doesn't appear!!

I’ve been having annual mammograms since I was 30 years old due to my family history. Any woman will tell you how much fun these appointments can be. Getting my breasts squeezed and squished into a vise of torture is not my idea of an hour well spent.

Pre-Cold War Mammogram!

I’m surprised that they don’t have a certificate on the wall from their Spanish Inquisition Classes. (Actually, the techs are all super nice and do all they can not to hurt and maim me – but you can’t help but think of these things while your boob is wedged between two plates of plastic and hoping it doesn't POP). I might as well go down to my husband’s woodworking shop and do it myself. Of course, he’d be happy to help!

Having your breast pulled like taffy to fit within a centimeter of space front and side is bad enough. You also must hold your breath and not move so you get through each position just once because repeating this pancake (crepe) trial of torture is not without mild pain

Mammogram room - screaming yellow is not soothing!

and discomfort. Just as you think the tech has tightened the vise enough – they always have a couple more “cranks” to go. It’s also a little irritating to be told that they don’t have much to work with?? I believe a more “petit” breast makes the mammogram more challenging. Apologies if I’m wrong. My less than bountiful breasts shrink inside my body when I arrive at Radiology.

My recent Mammogram left quite am impression!!

I’d never noticed any lumps or issues until my late 30’s. After one of my annual appointments my doctor called me to give me the news everyone fears hearing – we have detected a small dark mass on your mammogram – and you’ll need to see a specialist. He said that I would need a biopsy to determine if it’s negative or positive. So, a surgery was scheduled.

On the day of the event, I was being prepped and awaiting my anesthesiologist to put me under. A young woman walked in (she is labeled “young” because I wasn’t much older than her – unlike my age now where every doctor looks like a teenager). We were chatting about the procedure and I noticed her name tag on her scrubs. It was an unusual last name. Making small talk to distract me from going under and having my left breast sliced open, I casually mentioned that her name looked familiar and the same one as my GYN in Philly. I’ve never seen anyone react like she did when asked about their last name!! She stiffened up and glared at me over her mask and said, “That’s my SISTER!” (All names will obviously remain anonymous). Not knowing where this nipple-chilling conversation was going, I innocently said, “She was wonderful? I loved her? My favorite GYN?” My anesthesiologist proceeded to have a meltdown in front of me. She started babbling about her perfect sister and her inability to live up to her sister’s glory – I’m paraphrasing – but you get the gist where this was going. I got increasingly nervous, because while babbling, she was holding a VERY long needle and coming towards me as I lay prone and helpless on the slab (I mean table). Apparently, sibling rivalry and low self-esteem caused her to miss my vein and hit a nerve while my body levitated about 6 inches off the table in white hot agony!! As I slammed back down to earth – she cried out, “I’ll never be good enough!!” Wow!!! Next thing I know, she put me under while I prayed, “I hope I wake up!”

I did. When I came out of surgery, the male nurse who was gurney-ing me down the hall to my recovery room was laughing out loud. I said, “What’s so funny (in slurred speech)?” He said, “You’ve been telling me jokes ever since we left surgery.” I said, “I never remember jokes – that’s odd.” He just kept chuckling and said I was really funny. This was the last thing I anticipated after the anesthesiologist debacle. I was fully expecting lots of fire and brimstone and a welcome to hell package.

I never complained about the anesthesiologist. I just felt empathy and hoped she’d seek therapy. Her sister was a fantastic GYN and I miss her to this day – but maybe I should have reached out and told her to call her sister in Baltimore. To please give her a compliment or better yet, visit her and give her a hug.

My next surgery was for uterine fibroids. I was around 40 years old. My GYN said I had multiple fibroids and recommended surgery to remove them – as they could be detrimental to carrying a child to term. I was recently remarried and would have loved to have a child with Ed – so I said yes to their removal.

She needed to scrape some of my uterine wall to be biopsied to eliminate cancer from the mix. She invited a couple extra “medical toddlers” in to observe. I think I approved this decision. So, as I’m surrounded by strangers and my doctor is crouched between my legs – she starts digging (mining for golden fibroids). She apparently skipped the day they taught the “be gentle” course. I sound like a dying cow when having work down on my nether regions. It can’t be helped or ignored and I just have to take one for the herd. It hurt like a Mother-F**ker and probably convinced a few of the toddlers to consider becoming vegan.

I had the surgery at GBMC, an excellent hospital. I was put into a private room for an overnight stay (slumber party of 3). My husband and sister were there to hold my hand and give me comfort. I wish the nurse assigned to me had felt the same way.

When I was gradually coming out of my drug-induced delirium my husband was standing in front of me with a large bouquet of flowers. Apparently, these particular flowers outraged me and I proceeded to lambaste my husband and demanded he remove the offensive flowers from my post-surgery presence. I may have told him they “sucked.” I don’t remember any of this and horrified that I insulted my sweet, worried husband. I really hope it wasn’t a subconscious reaction.

When I finally became coherent, I was in excruciating pain. I was hooked up to an IV of Morphine, but the pain only got worse. Both my husband and sister were beside themselves at their helplessness. I can handle pain, but this was like my uterus was trying to claw its way out of my vagina and lower abdomen at the same time – slowly!!! The movie Alien quickly came to mind. The scene in the movie when John Hurt gets a tummy ache can never be unseen!!! Ed raced out of the room because no one was responding to the nurse call button. He tracked one down and dragged her reluctant ass back to my room. Needless to say, she was miffed that she had to actually “nurse” someone. Her reaction was, “She’s hooked up to Morphine. She should be fine. There’s nothing more I can do.” Ed was insistent something was wrong and the non-nurse finally looked at my drip and realized that it wasn’t turned on. She said, “Oh, the drips not turned on. Why didn’t you just turn it on?” Hmmmmmmm……Big pause here! I did not know the patient oversaw their Morphine dosage. Excellent!! Ed was furious and reminded her of her vocation and to turn the f**cking drip on NOW! She huffed and puffed but did not blow the hospital down. She harumphed and turned on the morph-candy. Instant flow of, “I don’t care anymore and just keep the euphoria coming.” There will be more about “Nurse Ratched" in a couple paragraphs.

BTW – I added yet another battle scar to my left breast baby scar – a very wide grimace between my pubic bones. My GYN also skipped the class on precision slicing and stitching. It’s challenging to find underwear that accommodates the unhappy thickened deformity. Also, thanks to menopause – the pubic hair (forest) is now growing north to conquer the blighted tissue. It also has phantom itching!

The day I got home, my neighbor decided that this was a good time to practice his side gig – part-time bar musician. It was a beautiful day and all the windows open. I was put into the guest room to rest and for the first time in my life – take a nap. I was in a weakened and childlike state of mind. Then the music started and like a baby, I got cranky!! He normally practiced outside in the evening - singing and playing his guitar quietly. He added a new layer by plugging into his amp so the entire neighborhood could enjoy the drunken concert of one (yes, he was obviously drunk). He also decided to practice just one song – over and over again – at top volume. I used to like Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks but grew to hate the song, “Landslide.” Actually, I can’t quite remember which song it was – but after listening to the song about 12 times – let’s go with Landslide.

Both my sister and husband immediately reacted. My sister calmly but my husband ferociously. Ed flipped out! At first, he was yelling out the window but the neighbor couldn’t hear him over his caterwauling. Then I heard the door slam and a heated alpha confrontation between yards. My neighbor refused to stop and my husband screamed that I was just home from the hospital and needed rest. This went on for quite a while until the drunk decided having another beer was more important than a pissing contest with my husband or maybe he just needed to piss. Good times!

I got through the first week just fine because I had such good rehab nurses (Bridget & Ed). But then she left, Ed had to work and life went back to normal. I had a couple more weeks of recovery and unable to work (or walk). Ed and I decided that my convalescence was a fantastic time to repaint the interior of our house. Luckily, I wasn’t the one doing it. I was left in charge of the paint crew. However, I was not very mobile and incapable of changing from jammies to civilized clothing or hosting or project managing. I do remember about 6 men in my home and occasionally being asked questions. But my clearest memory was lying on the couch in the living room and being asked if I needed assistance getting to the bedroom. I declined and told them I didn’t weigh much if they needed to move the couch and to just throw a paint tarp over me and leave me alone. So, they decided to cover me. They could still hear me through the tarp when they needed direction. This became our routine for a couple days while repainting the living room and dining room. One young guy even checked in on me periodically – pulling up an edge of the tarp - to see if I needed food or water. Very sweet. Of course, if I’d been myself the job would have turned out better than it did. Plaster walls are not easy to prep and we discovered a few sloppy sections that needed redoing. I decided that I’d do the painting from now on.

The next medical emergency was my miscarriage. I’m not ready to go into detail on this horrible and traumatic crisis but even that nightmare yielded an absurd occurrence. Maybe I'll tell you someday.

As a result of my miscarriage, I decided to go to a fertility doctor to see if Ed and I could still have children. My miscarriage was a very violent one and we needed to make sure everything was in working order because I’d had an Ectopic pregnancy. They decided to do a Fallopian Tube post-op HSG test. Dye was injected into my uterus and fallopian tubes and x-rayed to determine if I could carry to term.

Shortly after the procedure (which was very uncomfortable – dye HURTS!) I started feeling very ill. Ed was in NYC for work and the nausea and cramps grew to onset delirium. It was a work night and we had a client scheduled the next day and I needed to find a replacement. I barely remember calling Christina - to see if she could fill in for me. She told me later – that she almost drove to my home she was so worried. She ended up calling my boss as well – but he never reached out to me. Hmmmmm…. Anyway, I went to sleep (passed out).

Next morning. We were having a roof put onto our back porch at this time and I stayed long enough to give them directions prior to going to the emergency room. You’ll have to bear with me and my OCD because I was not in my right mind and did not know how sick I really was at the time. I’m from sturdy stock and just assumed I had a bug!

I called the fertility clinic to let them know something was terribly wrong and going to the ER. They said that I needed a referral and had to stop by their offices before getting emergency assistance!! I cried.

At this point in time, I could barely walk upright. The intense cramps/pain were starting to scare me. I gave the project manager instructions as I leaned against my car. As this clueless, stupid man talked my ear off about inane, ridiculous nonsense – I proceeded to lay on the hood of my car and took a nightmarish nap. He never shut up!!! I finally crawled to the car door and left him in the driveway still talking and drinking his f**king coffee. If I’d had the energy, I would have slowly driven over him - twice!

I don’t remember driving to the out-of-the-way fertility clinic but they confirmed I had an infection and should go to the ER. Wow! Like I hadn’t figured that out all ready! I hate insurance companies and their life-threatening referral rules.

I don’t remember driving to GBMC – same hospital as before. I was now in full sweat, pain I’ve never experienced and in-and-out of consciousness. But somehow, I managed to get there without incident and park my car. I half-crawled to the ER entrance.

Upon entry I finally succumbed to my illness and unable to walk. I literally crawled to the front desk and grabbed the counter to hoist myself up. The receptionist/greeter looked terrified as I asked for help. She immediately yelled for a wheelchair but found out they were all occupied. She was mumbling to herself that she wasn’t supposed to leave her station but ran out and grabbed me off the floor and practically did a fireman’s carry to the elevator and up to the women's wing. The last thing I remember was her screaming for a doctor.

Big pause here!

I sort of woke up once or twice - a dark shape hovering over me changing my bag of meds. The clearest memory was around 3am when a voice was nudging me to wake up. Yes, Nurse Ratched was my attending and looming over me!!! She wanted to know if she could borrow my magazines. I asked myself 3 questions – What the f**k? What magazines? What horrible thing did I do to deserve getting her as my nurse – again ?? The only question that got answered was the “Magazine” puzzle. Ed had been called by the hospital (apparently they went through my purse because I passed out) and drove from NYC to Baltimore in 1 hour. Not really, but he said that he drove 100 miles an hour the entire way and arrived in record time. He also bought me magazines!

The diagnosis for this rambling and agonizing story was that the fibroid dye test caused a massive infection. Apparently, the dye never left my fallopian tube and curdled into a potential death sentence. They told me that if I had arrived at the ER one hour later – I would have died. They kept me for a few days on an IV and considered me extremely lucky. I am very grateful for their care but I never want to see Nurse Ratched ever again!!!!

The other diagnosis from this nightmare was that I could never have children. I was coming to terms with this until my next GYN appointment. My doctor was the same one who handled my miscarriage. I was expecting just a normal uncomfortable poke and prod appointment but got quite a shock. While having our post-exam chat, she said, “You’re good to have children now – so let’s talk!” I was speechless and realized she didn’t remember me even though I’d been her patient for a few years. While all the blood ran from my head to my useless ovaries, I croaked, “I can’t have children.” She scrambled through the files piled on her desk and finally found mine and said, “Oh, right. Never mind.” This was the first time I wanted to slap her or sue her. If you’ve read my book, I mention her as the doctor whose pat answer for all my medical concerns was, “You’re getting old.” I told her that if she said that one more time, that I’d slap her. I never did, but I eventually changed doctors.

I found a new GYN. One who listened and actually answered questions. Below is an excerpt from my book at our 2nd and last appointment. He was very helpful despite what I've written in my book. I miss him!

I recently went for my annual GYN appointment. My new doctor and I discussed my vaginal disuse and the painful result—and how to get it back in working order. As he penetrated me with 2 hulk-sized fingers—describing and explaining my gossamer vaginal walls—I immediately started blurting out words of discomfort and pain. As I grunted, “Ow! Ow! That hurts! Owie! Owie!”—I slowly turned my head and looked at the 11-year-old nurse who had backed up into the corner with a look of sheer horror and disgust at me and her future. No help there.

Unfortunately, he announced that he was retiring and I would need to find a new GYN. Sigh…..

This reminded me of my 2 sessions with a Therapist during Covid. I was referred to her by a friend because I couldn’t stop crying and she kindly fit me into her schedule. I was suffering from PTPSD (I’ll explain this in a later post) and my conflicted decision on quitting my job of 21 years. I knew she was a very good therapist when she said, “Is your name on the company letterhead?” I said weeping, “No.” She said, “Then it’s not your problem.” I made the decision to quit on that short and obvious comment. She was a genius. Then she moved to New Zealand. Sigh.....

So I don’t end this post on a sad note – let me tell you about my recent Dentist appointment.

Have you ever cried at the dentist that did not involve a procedural pain? I have. Have you ever cried at the same time as your dentist? I have. I arrived at my bi-annual cleaning appointment in a seemingly good mood. I’ve been seeing this dentist for years and we always chat for a while prior to me being tortured. Dr. R asked me, “How are you Colleen?” I said, “Fine.” Big pause here. Dr. R asked again, “No, how are you really?” We locked eyes over our masks and I burst into tears. I started babbling about my father who had recently passed away and the impending trip to Maine to celebrate his life party. I babbled about writing a book and being overwhelmed at the whole process. I just kept babbling! He cried and hugged me and began telling me about his ongoing issues that I can’t reveal but were heartbreaking. We kept hugging, crying and blowing our noses while the 10-year-old tech stood nearby - holding a suction hose in dead silence. This went on for a while and then we calmed down and he proceeded to scrape and clean my teeth. I left feeling somewhat better but with a sore gum from being stabbed during the plaque removal. It was buy one get one free appointment – therapy and a dental cleaning.

I mentioned in my Part 1 Doctor Appointments post that I was getting an MRI because I was diagnosed with Tinnitus. They wanted to rule out tumors in my petit head and ear canals. My husband went with me to the appointment because I was a little nervous about being in an enclosed tube for an hour. When I checked in they revealed that I owed them a big chunk of change co-pay. My husband freaked out that they did not tell me about these charges. I checked with the front desk people who referred me to the money people but they were out to lunch. I called customer service about my health plan’s out of pocket/deductible crap and they confirmed what I owed. I cancelled that appointment and will wait to try again after my Medicare begins. Never a dull moment when I deal with the medical community. It drives one absolutely insane!!

Always take a pix of your favorite and most frequented room!

I had to take a selfie in my doctor's facility bathroom. My last day will be a Covid shot and a Goodbye to KP. Medicare begins 10/1/23!! Sigh....

I'd love to hear some of your hysterical or tragic or empowering Doctor Visits - it helps to share!!

Share with your Friends, Family and even total Strangers! I recommend you purchase the soft cover book for the preferred reading experience! I have pages at the end of the book for you to add your own menopausal journey!

I really hope you’ll sign up and become a part of my community. I would love to hear your stories, without any editing, please. I can handle anything!

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Let’s be Friends!!!

Colleen McIntosh