Ologist-Outed...
I’ve had it. I’m done. I wish I could quit you all, but the sad reality is I can’t. I’m only 41. Aren’t I still considered too young for all of this?
It all started my senior year of high school when I acquired the first of the ologists. My gynecologist— my mother’s to be exact. Dr. Feldman. I didn’t think it proper to have a man touch me in places no other man had before. I found my own—a female— when I left for college.
I was safe for a long time and could deal with the cold stirrups on an annual basis. I pretty much was ologist-free in my 20’s. The trouble all began as soon as I hit my 30’s or what I refer to as my mid-life crisis years. Thankfully, I finished with them a few August's ago.
After a routine visit with my gynecologist, she noticed blood in my urine and referred me to an urologist. What was he going to feel when I coughed? A misdirected urine stream? I endured tests and was told nothing was wrong.
Nothing wrong that is until my years of Southern California sun worshipping urged me to seek an ologist on my own—a dermatologist. My body checked out fine except in places where the sun had never set its eyes. Two office visits later, my ass resembled Swiss cheese. I only shudder to think how the rest of me will look as time marches on.
Not many months after the Swiss cheese episode, I discovered a lump in my breast during an early morning shower. Back to the gynecologist I went. Days later I saw a radiologist. A week later, my breast tumor was removed. Back to the gynecologist for a post-surgery follow up. I think you get the drift of how I spent my early 30’s
Hold on, I’m not done yet.
Nine years ago, I began having seizures, migraine headaches, infertility issues. I just wanted to become a mother and I went from one puzzled doctor to another. I had an MRI. A radiologist read my scans and less than 12 hours later, I was assigned a neurosurgeon. I had a baseball-size meningioma brain tumor, which required immediate surgery.
I survived the surgery, but my drilled-into psyche didn’t. I added a fifth doctor, a neuropsychologist, to help me cope. He didn’t offer ologist coping strategies though, which in retrospect, would have been helpful.
I healed and life went on. I bore the daughter I was told I couldn’t have. Her arrival brought great joy, but not in terms of the seizures I started having again.
I added neurologist to my growing list of ologist docs. This one gives me drugs and they don’t come cheap.
Five years ago, miracle child number two came along and with that, a knock-me-down fatigue I’d never experienced before. Back to the gynecologist who makes referral to expert endocrinologist. I donate vials of blood and am diagnosed with funny sounding disease—Hashimoto’s—to be exact. My thyroid is slower than a turtle’s pace. More drugs, but these come much cheaper.
And even though I do have hemmorhoids—a lovely souvenir two pregnancies gave me—I don’t think I’m quite ready to go down the proctologist path.
I am now on a first name basis with my pharmacologist. My yearly planner is pre-booked with annual visits to gynecologist, dermatologist, radiologist, neurologist, and endocrinologist.
Luckily, I was able to break up with the neuropsychologist without any hard feelings.
I’ve had it. I’m done. I wish I could quit you all, but the sad reality is I can’t. I’m only 41. Aren’t I still considered too young for all of this?
It all started my senior year of high school when I acquired the first of the ologists. My gynecologist— my mother’s to be exact. Dr. Feldman. I didn’t think it proper to have a man touch me in places no other man had before. I found my own—a female— when I left for college.
I was safe for a long time and could deal with the cold stirrups on an annual basis. I pretty much was ologist-free in my 20’s. The trouble all began as soon as I hit my 30’s or what I refer to as my mid-life crisis years. Thankfully, I finished with them a few August's ago.
After a routine visit with my gynecologist, she noticed blood in my urine and referred me to an urologist. What was he going to feel when I coughed? A misdirected urine stream? I endured tests and was told nothing was wrong.
Nothing wrong that is until my years of Southern California sun worshipping urged me to seek an ologist on my own—a dermatologist. My body checked out fine except in places where the sun had never set its eyes. Two office visits later, my ass resembled Swiss cheese. I only shudder to think how the rest of me will look as time marches on.
Not many months after the Swiss cheese episode, I discovered a lump in my breast during an early morning shower. Back to the gynecologist I went. Days later I saw a radiologist. A week later, my breast tumor was removed. Back to the gynecologist for a post-surgery follow up. I think you get the drift of how I spent my early 30’s
Hold on, I’m not done yet.
Nine years ago, I began having seizures, migraine headaches, infertility issues. I just wanted to become a mother and I went from one puzzled doctor to another. I had an MRI. A radiologist read my scans and less than 12 hours later, I was assigned a neurosurgeon. I had a baseball-size meningioma brain tumor, which required immediate surgery.
I survived the surgery, but my drilled-into psyche didn’t. I added a fifth doctor, a neuropsychologist, to help me cope. He didn’t offer ologist coping strategies though, which in retrospect, would have been helpful.
I healed and life went on. I bore the daughter I was told I couldn’t have. Her arrival brought great joy, but not in terms of the seizures I started having again.
I added neurologist to my growing list of ologist docs. This one gives me drugs and they don’t come cheap.
Five years ago, miracle child number two came along and with that, a knock-me-down fatigue I’d never experienced before. Back to the gynecologist who makes referral to expert endocrinologist. I donate vials of blood and am diagnosed with funny sounding disease—Hashimoto’s—to be exact. My thyroid is slower than a turtle’s pace. More drugs, but these come much cheaper.
And even though I do have hemmorhoids—a lovely souvenir two pregnancies gave me—I don’t think I’m quite ready to go down the proctologist path.
I am now on a first name basis with my pharmacologist. My yearly planner is pre-booked with annual visits to gynecologist, dermatologist, radiologist, neurologist, and endocrinologist.
Luckily, I was able to break up with the neuropsychologist without any hard feelings.
That's an awful lot of ologists. At least you got rid of one. Now, time to work on making the others disappear from your life!
ReplyDelete