naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
I haven't been updating much because my brain has been pretty uncooperative.

I'm in a good enough place, emotionally, but the pharmacy switched me to a different generic of Wellbutrin, and a few days later I noticed that I was . . . err . . . not digesting them.  I asked my real doctor -- not the guy at CRS -- if I was right to be as concerned as I was and she was like "YES, FIND A DIFFERENT GENERIC ASAP!"  So that took me a few days, because the other places I get scrips filled all got their generics from the same manufacturer.

The long and short of it is that I went over a week without my Wellbutrin, and that has had a marked effect on my ability to get shit done.  I forget words, and have to do things like call doing the dishes "doing the plate laundry," and a giant popcorn can became "the big metal tube thingy that goes bongggg".

On the bright side, my thyroid levels are normal again, so yay!

I owe you guys the Steampunk Pony story, a couple of rambling posts about those weird-ass dreams I was having, and probably some other stuff too, so please pardon the radio silence.  I'm terribly sorry.

I have a ton of work to do, and I'm pretty stressed about it all, so I'm going to get back to doing that as fast as I can, which I am afraid is not very fast at all.

But I love you guys.  I really do.

naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I am back from Planned Parenthood. And back from my nap. I posted briefly about it earlier, but it appears not to have propagated to Livejournal.

It appears that there is nothing terribly wrong, and barring unlikely test results, yeah, we don't have to worry about it being something Scary and Bad. They'll be calling me next week to tell me that they found nothing, I'm sure.

For the TMI-averse. )

I took a clonazepam before I went, and it helped a lot. I still got really nauseated and I was scared, but it was much less and not for nearly as long. So, experiment successful.

The woman doctor actually said that she saw I'd had some bad doctor experiences and that she was very, very sorry about that, even if they didn't happen at that clinic, and that they wanted me to feel comfortable. And I did. They were really great about talking to me, checking in with me, and being considerate of my general "I am on druuuuuuuuugs wooooooooo!!!" state. I thanked them all personally, and told the girl at the front that I had felt safe the whole time, which I did, and that I was really grateful for that. So I will probably write them a note or something so that they have some positive reinforcement there.

And they laughed at my bad jokes.

It didn't hurt hardly at all. Just a scratch. (Not that I was worried about the pain, but I am still pleasantly surprised.) I warned them about the swearing, but didn't have to deploy it.

I did use the line a friend threw at me the other day (I was so flattered) about me swearing "like a Baltic bear trainer with prostate swelling." Which prompted laughter and the older doctor guy who was there asking if I had ever met any Baltic bear trainers, which I have not, which in turn led to an "I was in the army" story that involved encountering actual bear trainers, who were apparently very angry people who swore a lot in some scary-sounding language. So that was probably, ironically, the best part of my day (besides the nap I took). Because that was very funny.

So they were good folks. And next time maybe it will not be so scary.

And I am still a little "wooooooo!" so please excuse me if I go and play with my ponies or something.

Y'all are wonderful.

ETA: Oh yeah, the best part! It cost, like, less than a fourth I thought it would! They had misquoted me wrong both times. Only this time, it was in my favor. So I have $300 more in the bank than I thought I would. Which means I can pay for another upcoming appointment without tears and recriminations. So, win.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Death Ray)
At one point last year, I ripped my right big toenail off completely. Amazingly, it healed without incident and I never needed to see the doctor for it.

Then I rammed that exact same toe into my portfolio. Hurt like hell. Two days later, I did it again, and the nail, which was still pretty fragile, cracked on that side and cut into my flesh, which was all swollen up from the first time I'd jammed it. OW.

It never looked gross, but it got infected and painful and I went to the doctor to have him look at it. I achieved antibiotics and took those. They didn't work as well as I might have liked at first, but they brought the swelling down enough that I could pull out the offending sliver of toenail, after which it did look gross, but improved.

The toe remained sensitive, though, and has now been hurting again in earnest, I suspect because the first course of antibiotics didn't quite do the trick due to my only getting the offending object out about halfway through. Also, I can't seem to stop ramming this toe into things.

So now I have to go back to the doctor for more pills, deal with the nausea and other side effects, and also deal with the fact that it fucks up my schedule for taking other meds, like the ones that keep me from being horribly depressed.

And I feel stupid going to the doctor for such a tiny, fiddleshit little problem with a pain level that I could easily ignore except that -- oddly enough -- it makes it painful to sleep. I feel like I'm making a big deal out of nothing.

I feel extra stupid and embarrassed for bitching about this because my best friend is having major foot issues right now. But seriously? Shit like this that Wont. Go. Away. annoys the fuck out of me. This toe has been bothering me for months now, one way or another.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Death Ray)
At one point last year, I ripped my right big toenail off completely. Amazingly, it healed without incident and I never needed to see the doctor for it.

Then I rammed that exact same toe into my portfolio. Hurt like hell. Two days later, I did it again, and the nail, which was still pretty fragile, cracked on that side and cut into my flesh, which was all swollen up from the first time I'd jammed it. OW.

It never looked gross, but it got infected and painful and I went to the doctor to have him look at it. I achieved antibiotics and took those. They didn't work as well as I might have liked at first, but they brought the swelling down enough that I could pull out the offending sliver of toenail, after which it did look gross, but improved.

The toe remained sensitive, though, and has now been hurting again in earnest, I suspect because the first course of antibiotics didn't quite do the trick due to my only getting the offending object out about halfway through. Also, I can't seem to stop ramming this toe into things.

So now I have to go back to the doctor for more pills, deal with the nausea and other side effects, and also deal with the fact that it fucks up my schedule for taking other meds, like the ones that keep me from being horribly depressed.

And I feel stupid going to the doctor for such a tiny, fiddleshit little problem with a pain level that I could easily ignore except that -- oddly enough -- it makes it painful to sleep. I feel like I'm making a big deal out of nothing.

I feel extra stupid and embarrassed for bitching about this because my best friend is having major foot issues right now. But seriously? Shit like this that Wont. Go. Away. annoys the fuck out of me. This toe has been bothering me for months now, one way or another.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
Okay, a question specifically for those of you using Metrogel.

I know metronidazole, taken internally, arrests the metabolism of alcohol --

Jesus Christ, I just got a package in the mail from [livejournal.com profile] pixxelpuss containing Dollhouse S1 and an audiobook of Lolita read by Jeremy Irons. SO WRONG IT'S RIGHT. Thank you, darling. I love you so much! Expect opinions on Dollhouse soon, as Sargon is eager to see it, too.

Uh, where was I before I was interrupted by Jeremy Irons and Eliza Dushku? Dear god, no, the wrong thoughts will burn me.

Oh yes, chemistry.

I know that orally-administered metronidazole arrests the metabolism of alcohol at the formaldehyde stage, meaning that it probably won't kill you to drink while you are taking it, but, in the words of Dr. C, "You will not only think you are going to die, you will welcome it."

I need to know if the topical Metrogel used externally, on the face, has the same effects. Web searches yield nothing particularly helpful, and I know some of you must use it, so I thought I would ask. Because the last thing I want is to be embalmed while I am still breathing.

Specifically, would I be safe to ingest the equivalent of about half a glass of red wine? Because there is this raspberry ice/red wine dessert at our local family-run Italian place that is to die for and I urgently desire to have some quite soon.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
Okay, a question specifically for those of you using Metrogel.

I know metronidazole, taken internally, arrests the metabolism of alcohol --

Jesus Christ, I just got a package in the mail from [livejournal.com profile] pixxelpuss containing Dollhouse S1 and an audiobook of Lolita read by Jeremy Irons. SO WRONG IT'S RIGHT. Thank you, darling. I love you so much! Expect opinions on Dollhouse soon, as Sargon is eager to see it, too.

Uh, where was I before I was interrupted by Jeremy Irons and Eliza Dushku? Dear god, no, the wrong thoughts will burn me.

Oh yes, chemistry.

I know that orally-administered metronidazole arrests the metabolism of alcohol at the formaldehyde stage, meaning that it probably won't kill you to drink while you are taking it, but, in the words of Dr. C, "You will not only think you are going to die, you will welcome it."

I need to know if the topical Metrogel used externally, on the face, has the same effects. Web searches yield nothing particularly helpful, and I know some of you must use it, so I thought I would ask. Because the last thing I want is to be embalmed while I am still breathing.

Specifically, would I be safe to ingest the equivalent of about half a glass of red wine? Because there is this raspberry ice/red wine dessert at our local family-run Italian place that is to die for and I urgently desire to have some quite soon.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
In good spirits, comparatively.

I had an appointment with my GP to discuss my thyroid levels and so forth, so that's fun. No, really, I actually love to see him, because he's so kind. And funny. We were discussing dead things and forensic entomology, and the phrase "thrown off the trail by an erroneous maggot" proved to be delightful.

I am cutting my dose of thyroid meds. We went too far up. I go back in two months for more bloodwork. Third battery this year. This is why I fear losing my insurance.

Got a call from Doc Boots' office this morning. One of the test results got borked in processing, so I have to go back in. I am annoyed by this. It means nothing, test results get fucked up all the time, but my insurance wants proof that I am clean before they will pay for the IUD. Which I understand, I honestly do. It's still annoying. So I go back on Monday. At 3:30, just so I have less chance of forgetting to go. All my other tests came back clean, so there's that, at least.

Everything else is going okay. I'm still having pain, but it's very slight, almost not worth mentioning. It'll be nice to have confirmation that nothing is wrong, I guess, but I'm confident it means nothing.

Everything else is going okay.

* Shut up. It's all relative.

** No, really.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
In good spirits, comparatively.

I had an appointment with my GP to discuss my thyroid levels and so forth, so that's fun. No, really, I actually love to see him, because he's so kind. And funny. We were discussing dead things and forensic entomology, and the phrase "thrown off the trail by an erroneous maggot" proved to be delightful.

I am cutting my dose of thyroid meds. We went too far up. I go back in two months for more bloodwork. Third battery this year. This is why I fear losing my insurance.

Got a call from Doc Boots' office this morning. One of the test results got borked in processing, so I have to go back in. I am annoyed by this. It means nothing, test results get fucked up all the time, but my insurance wants proof that I am clean before they will pay for the IUD. Which I understand, I honestly do. It's still annoying. So I go back on Monday. At 3:30, just so I have less chance of forgetting to go. All my other tests came back clean, so there's that, at least.

Everything else is going okay. I'm still having pain, but it's very slight, almost not worth mentioning. It'll be nice to have confirmation that nothing is wrong, I guess, but I'm confident it means nothing.

Everything else is going okay.

* Shut up. It's all relative.

** No, really.
naamah_darling: A wolf with its jaws wide open, and FUCK! written between them. (Fuck!)
Sooo, the Uterus That Would Not Die? It's trying to kill me again. Or drive me to suicide. A subtle distinction often lost on bystanders, who are chiefly concerned with dodging fountains of gore.

This time it has resorted to a tactic I thought it had abandoned way back in 1998 or '99. You know, last century. It is trying to make me bleed to death. That's right, the period that won't end has returned.

The irony that I have recently moved into a house with a white bathroom is not lost on me. It's like the ultimate case of not being able to go out in white pants because you will inevitably bleed all over them, even if your uterus is in a different county. At least the wallpaper is washable vinyl.

Nobody has ever been able to tell me why this happens. Not for sure. I have, personally, stopped caring. Pretty much all I care about is getting it to stop. Last time, the small army of incredibly irresponsible and stupid doctors I foolhardily employed to fix it tried a neverending cycle of pointless exams and hormone therapy, all of which proved to be a very bad idea. I am not doing that again. I am through fucking around. I strongly suspect that the goddamn thing is going to have to come out.

I am not pleased about this at all. A hysterectomy would require far too much contact with doctors for my liking.* If, however, it would save me from having to deal with the uterus from hell, I will endeavor to persevere.

The only reason I am sharing this with you is so that when the article appears in the paper detailing how I strangled some stupid asshole with his own stethoscope, you will know what probably precipitated it. And also so that when I annouce that I'm having parts of me removed and incinerated, you will not think I have gone out of my mind.

I would like to add, in closing, that we are without insurance at the moment,** and that I am in no mental state to deal with this crap right now. In fact, this is a very bad time, as I am, in colloquial parlance, all fucked up. I needed this like I need railspikes in my brain.

I am so pissed off about this. You have no idea. You really don't. Fuck cookies. Fuck chocolate. I want fucking blood. And it would be really, really nice if it were not coming from my vagina, thank you.

If I want medical advice, I will totally ask for it. Leave this between me and my doctor.

* When I say I am iatrophobic, I am not being as precise as I would like. There is no single verb meaning "to loathe and distrust someone to the point of wishing I could carry a gun into the exam room with me, because there have been times I needed it." They are fucking evil fucks, barring a few who may not have shown it yet -- you can never tell. And yet, if you let on that you know they are lying bastards, and you call them on their underhanded bullshit, they get really pissed off. Even when you are totally right.

** Belay the COBRA stuff. We're looking into it.
naamah_darling: A wolf with its jaws wide open, and FUCK! written between them. (Fuck!)
Sooo, the Uterus That Would Not Die? It's trying to kill me again. Or drive me to suicide. A subtle distinction often lost on bystanders, who are chiefly concerned with dodging fountains of gore.

This time it has resorted to a tactic I thought it had abandoned way back in 1998 or '99. You know, last century. It is trying to make me bleed to death. That's right, the period that won't end has returned.

The irony that I have recently moved into a house with a white bathroom is not lost on me. It's like the ultimate case of not being able to go out in white pants because you will inevitably bleed all over them, even if your uterus is in a different county. At least the wallpaper is washable vinyl.

Nobody has ever been able to tell me why this happens. Not for sure. I have, personally, stopped caring. Pretty much all I care about is getting it to stop. Last time, the small army of incredibly irresponsible and stupid doctors I foolhardily employed to fix it tried a neverending cycle of pointless exams and hormone therapy, all of which proved to be a very bad idea. I am not doing that again. I am through fucking around. I strongly suspect that the goddamn thing is going to have to come out.

I am not pleased about this at all. A hysterectomy would require far too much contact with doctors for my liking.* If, however, it would save me from having to deal with the uterus from hell, I will endeavor to persevere.

The only reason I am sharing this with you is so that when the article appears in the paper detailing how I strangled some stupid asshole with his own stethoscope, you will know what probably precipitated it. And also so that when I annouce that I'm having parts of me removed and incinerated, you will not think I have gone out of my mind.

I would like to add, in closing, that we are without insurance at the moment,** and that I am in no mental state to deal with this crap right now. In fact, this is a very bad time, as I am, in colloquial parlance, all fucked up. I needed this like I need railspikes in my brain.

I am so pissed off about this. You have no idea. You really don't. Fuck cookies. Fuck chocolate. I want fucking blood. And it would be really, really nice if it were not coming from my vagina, thank you.

If I want medical advice, I will totally ask for it. Leave this between me and my doctor.

* When I say I am iatrophobic, I am not being as precise as I would like. There is no single verb meaning "to loathe and distrust someone to the point of wishing I could carry a gun into the exam room with me, because there have been times I needed it." They are fucking evil fucks, barring a few who may not have shown it yet -- you can never tell. And yet, if you let on that you know they are lying bastards, and you call them on their underhanded bullshit, they get really pissed off. Even when you are totally right.

** Belay the COBRA stuff. We're looking into it.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Cat Farts)
Dreamed very, very vividly about being trapped in a giant home improvement store, trying to buy things and being unable to get any help. My friends and family who had come with me had gone missing, and when time came to take everything to the car, I found I didn't have the keys. I went back into the store (on all fours, with claws clicking) and began howling my goddamn head off, interspersed with hollering the names of the people I could not find. I had jumped on top of a display of decorative basketry and was making the light fixtures rattle with my screaming when the people with guns appeared. . . .

I woke up with a headache bad enough to make me wonder if I had been howling in my sleep.

I need to go to the actual home improvement store today to get paint for the master bedroom. Obviously, I really don't want to do that. I am trying to decide if it would be worse to go alone or go with someone.

In other news, the doctor's appointment on Tuesday went well. My thyroid levels are normal, which means the drugs continue to do their work just like they are supposed to, and I have nothing to worry about for the next six months. Thank goodness.

I love my doctor. I really do. He suggested that we celebrate Hogswatch in our new house, and he got my Black Adder joke. His staff may be incompetent nincompoops (or they may be simply overworked), but he's a gem, and I'm not letting him go. He actually listens to me and has respect for me and shit.

The rest of the week has gone pretty well. There are some not-so-great things going on both in reality and in my headspace that I really don't want to talk about, so I'm going to just ignore it until it either goes away or gets worse. I am mostly just tired, and wondering if I am ever going to feel like working for pay again.

Right now I am going to go downstairs, finish an art project, and . . . I don't know. Maybe watch a movie or something. I'll deal with the paint later.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Cat Farts)
Dreamed very, very vividly about being trapped in a giant home improvement store, trying to buy things and being unable to get any help. My friends and family who had come with me had gone missing, and when time came to take everything to the car, I found I didn't have the keys. I went back into the store (on all fours, with claws clicking) and began howling my goddamn head off, interspersed with hollering the names of the people I could not find. I had jumped on top of a display of decorative basketry and was making the light fixtures rattle with my screaming when the people with guns appeared. . . .

I woke up with a headache bad enough to make me wonder if I had been howling in my sleep.

I need to go to the actual home improvement store today to get paint for the master bedroom. Obviously, I really don't want to do that. I am trying to decide if it would be worse to go alone or go with someone.

In other news, the doctor's appointment on Tuesday went well. My thyroid levels are normal, which means the drugs continue to do their work just like they are supposed to, and I have nothing to worry about for the next six months. Thank goodness.

I love my doctor. I really do. He suggested that we celebrate Hogswatch in our new house, and he got my Black Adder joke. His staff may be incompetent nincompoops (or they may be simply overworked), but he's a gem, and I'm not letting him go. He actually listens to me and has respect for me and shit.

The rest of the week has gone pretty well. There are some not-so-great things going on both in reality and in my headspace that I really don't want to talk about, so I'm going to just ignore it until it either goes away or gets worse. I am mostly just tired, and wondering if I am ever going to feel like working for pay again.

Right now I am going to go downstairs, finish an art project, and . . . I don't know. Maybe watch a movie or something. I'll deal with the paint later.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (IQ)
I just got back from the clinic, and now I have new holes in me. The tech popped the vein on my right arm, giving me a nice bruise. Not her fault, though. My veins are very small, and they roll, and now that I've put some weight on, they are difficult to find. Also, I hadn't had much to drink.

At least I'm a cheerful patient. Sometimes I think they could hang baby sharks off my nipples and I'd just smile, I love the bloodwork so much. And hey, if you had low thyroid levels, you'd love it, too. I can feel my feet.

Also, the needles they use at the Red Cross are so much fucking bigger it's not funny. I barely feel the blood draws at the doctor's.

Anyway, while I was out, I made some old guy's day.

I was going back out to my car to get something I'd forgotten, and I stopped at the crosswalk. Yeah, pedestrians have right-of-way, but this is Oklahoma, and we all hate pedestrians. Better safe than sorry.

This old guy in a van waved me across, and so I loped to the other side. (This, of course, meant my boobs* were bouncing all over the place.)

He leaned out of his window with a grin. "You don't have to run!"

I pointed to my chest with both hands. "I gotta exercise my boobs!"

He fucking lost it. When I came back out five minutes later, he had parked, and was still laughing. I might have made his week.

Then I came home and shared my Arby's roasta beefs with Tazendra, and all is well.

* See icon, though the icon is no longer accurate. I put on weight and my boobs grew. Now it's 40 D. It's pretty awesome, yeah.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (IQ)
I just got back from the clinic, and now I have new holes in me. The tech popped the vein on my right arm, giving me a nice bruise. Not her fault, though. My veins are very small, and they roll, and now that I've put some weight on, they are difficult to find. Also, I hadn't had much to drink.

At least I'm a cheerful patient. Sometimes I think they could hang baby sharks off my nipples and I'd just smile, I love the bloodwork so much. And hey, if you had low thyroid levels, you'd love it, too. I can feel my feet.

Also, the needles they use at the Red Cross are so much fucking bigger it's not funny. I barely feel the blood draws at the doctor's.

Anyway, while I was out, I made some old guy's day.

I was going back out to my car to get something I'd forgotten, and I stopped at the crosswalk. Yeah, pedestrians have right-of-way, but this is Oklahoma, and we all hate pedestrians. Better safe than sorry.

This old guy in a van waved me across, and so I loped to the other side. (This, of course, meant my boobs* were bouncing all over the place.)

He leaned out of his window with a grin. "You don't have to run!"

I pointed to my chest with both hands. "I gotta exercise my boobs!"

He fucking lost it. When I came back out five minutes later, he had parked, and was still laughing. I might have made his week.

Then I came home and shared my Arby's roasta beefs with Tazendra, and all is well.

* See icon, though the icon is no longer accurate. I put on weight and my boobs grew. Now it's 40 D. It's pretty awesome, yeah.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Here you go. Ground rules for dealing with me in a medical context. Feel free to grab, edit and add to them to apply to you, and give them to your healthcare professional. If you are pretty sure your doctor is cool, or you are just a really sarcastic cutup, you can use the first one. The second might go over better, though.

Notations and Helpful Hints:

Considering how friendly we are about to get, I think we ought to start off on the right foot. To that end, I feel obligated to inform you that I've had negative experiences with other doctors. Regrettably, I have discovered the need to spell out the following in explicit terms:

I get extremely nervous before and during exams. I make every effort to be cooperative and pleasant, but I am often in a state of intense anxiety – whether or not it shows. I will appreciate your patience with me more than I can say.

Because I get nervous, I usually bring written material with me. I'm not a pushy hag, I just hate getting home and realizing I forgot to ask which end to put the pills in. Trust me. Bringing in typed-up sheets is better than hauling in my secretary, a giant redheaded viking. His memory is as bad as mine, but he likes to set things on fire.

Unless I specifically ask to be told, I do not want to know my weight. I will never ask. Never tell me.

There's nothing wrong with the word "pain." It's a perfectly good word. Use it! "A little pain," "a lot of pain," "bite down on this leather strap," "MUWAHAHAHAHAHA!" . . . this is all good and helpful. All I need is some warning. "You will feel some discomfort," and "a mild cramp" are suspicious, though, so you might want to be more specific; if you tell me "little pinch" and I get "fiery red-hot wasp sting of death," I will not be held responsible for the consequences.

If something hurts like hell and I ask you to stop, please stop unless doing so would put me in immediate danger. I'm honestly not lying when I gripe about pain -- my pain threshold is quite high. Consider an "Ouch!" from me to be equivalent to a stream of profanity from someone else. If I start swearing, just ignore it, unless I say "stop." We can always use another safeword if you like. I like "turnip."

Please do not surprise me by sticking anything into any orifice without giving warning and obtaining subsequent consent. And you know, you'd think it would not need to be said, but this goes double for anything going into my ass. Even my husband, whom I love very much, has to obey this rule. I am sure you see that I can't make an exception for you without setting a dangerous precedent.

I look into everything very thoroughly and I ask lots of annoying questions. Usually I'm tractable once I understand why something is necessary, but if the day comes that I say no to a particular test, exam, procedure, or medication, it means no, full stop. I live with three cats. Badgering and cajoling do not work on me.

I realize I'm fat. I don't like it much, but it's not going to kill me. I eat a healthy diet of fish, chicken, fruits, and vegetables, and I exercise for an hour six times a week. I'm not a lazy glutton, I'm just following in a long tradition of short, squat, swarthy people with bad tempers. I promise I am fit and healthy.

As you can probably guess, I don't tolerate being treated badly because of my weight, sexual orientation, sexual history, disinclination to have children, my religion or lack thereof, my income, my completed level of education, the presence of tattoos or piercings, what crazy thing I've decided to do with my pubic hair that week, etc. . . .

And I really hope that you don't treat any of your patients that way, not even the fat, bisexual, slutty, childfree, atheist, poor folks with high school diplomas, enough genital piercings to play like a xylophone, full-back tattoos of naked pirate bellydancer mermaids, and a hot-pink landing strip of pubes waxed into a series of points.

I am childfree. I therefore expect that medical care will never be withheld on the sole basis of preserving my fertility or preventing harm to children I will never have. Because if you stop to think about it, that would be pretty stupid and condescending, wouldn't it?

I expect that no form of care will ever be withheld as an attempt to force me to consent to a particular procedure, adopt particular lifestyle changes, etc. It didn't work for my parents when I was a kid, it didn't work for my teachers when I was a teen, and it definitely won't work on me now that I'm old and set in my ways.

I also expect that if needed care conflicts with your personal morality, you will refer me to a physician who will provide said care. I don't think that's likely to be necessary, but I want to cover my bases in case you acquire a sudden objection to touching a fat, foulmouthed heathen.

I would like a copy of this to be placed in my file for future reference.



And the snark-free version:

Cut for length. )

There.

This is all very basic stuff, you see. And if they object to any of it, give them the finger on your way out the door. They do not deserve the spit to swear with.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Here you go. Ground rules for dealing with me in a medical context. Feel free to grab, edit and add to them to apply to you, and give them to your healthcare professional. If you are pretty sure your doctor is cool, or you are just a really sarcastic cutup, you can use the first one. The second might go over better, though.

Notations and Helpful Hints:

Considering how friendly we are about to get, I think we ought to start off on the right foot. To that end, I feel obligated to inform you that I've had negative experiences with other doctors. Regrettably, I have discovered the need to spell out the following in explicit terms:

I get extremely nervous before and during exams. I make every effort to be cooperative and pleasant, but I am often in a state of intense anxiety – whether or not it shows. I will appreciate your patience with me more than I can say.

Because I get nervous, I usually bring written material with me. I'm not a pushy hag, I just hate getting home and realizing I forgot to ask which end to put the pills in. Trust me. Bringing in typed-up sheets is better than hauling in my secretary, a giant redheaded viking. His memory is as bad as mine, but he likes to set things on fire.

Unless I specifically ask to be told, I do not want to know my weight. I will never ask. Never tell me.

There's nothing wrong with the word "pain." It's a perfectly good word. Use it! "A little pain," "a lot of pain," "bite down on this leather strap," "MUWAHAHAHAHAHA!" . . . this is all good and helpful. All I need is some warning. "You will feel some discomfort," and "a mild cramp" are suspicious, though, so you might want to be more specific; if you tell me "little pinch" and I get "fiery red-hot wasp sting of death," I will not be held responsible for the consequences.

If something hurts like hell and I ask you to stop, please stop unless doing so would put me in immediate danger. I'm honestly not lying when I gripe about pain -- my pain threshold is quite high. Consider an "Ouch!" from me to be equivalent to a stream of profanity from someone else. If I start swearing, just ignore it, unless I say "stop." We can always use another safeword if you like. I like "turnip."

Please do not surprise me by sticking anything into any orifice without giving warning and obtaining subsequent consent. And you know, you'd think it would not need to be said, but this goes double for anything going into my ass. Even my husband, whom I love very much, has to obey this rule. I am sure you see that I can't make an exception for you without setting a dangerous precedent.

I look into everything very thoroughly and I ask lots of annoying questions. Usually I'm tractable once I understand why something is necessary, but if the day comes that I say no to a particular test, exam, procedure, or medication, it means no, full stop. I live with three cats. Badgering and cajoling do not work on me.

I realize I'm fat. I don't like it much, but it's not going to kill me. I eat a healthy diet of fish, chicken, fruits, and vegetables, and I exercise for an hour six times a week. I'm not a lazy glutton, I'm just following in a long tradition of short, squat, swarthy people with bad tempers. I promise I am fit and healthy.

As you can probably guess, I don't tolerate being treated badly because of my weight, sexual orientation, sexual history, disinclination to have children, my religion or lack thereof, my income, my completed level of education, the presence of tattoos or piercings, what crazy thing I've decided to do with my pubic hair that week, etc. . . .

And I really hope that you don't treat any of your patients that way, not even the fat, bisexual, slutty, childfree, atheist, poor folks with high school diplomas, enough genital piercings to play like a xylophone, full-back tattoos of naked pirate bellydancer mermaids, and a hot-pink landing strip of pubes waxed into a series of points.

I am childfree. I therefore expect that medical care will never be withheld on the sole basis of preserving my fertility or preventing harm to children I will never have. Because if you stop to think about it, that would be pretty stupid and condescending, wouldn't it?

I expect that no form of care will ever be withheld as an attempt to force me to consent to a particular procedure, adopt particular lifestyle changes, etc. It didn't work for my parents when I was a kid, it didn't work for my teachers when I was a teen, and it definitely won't work on me now that I'm old and set in my ways.

I also expect that if needed care conflicts with your personal morality, you will refer me to a physician who will provide said care. I don't think that's likely to be necessary, but I want to cover my bases in case you acquire a sudden objection to touching a fat, foulmouthed heathen.

I would like a copy of this to be placed in my file for future reference.



And the snark-free version:

Cut for length. )

There.

This is all very basic stuff, you see. And if they object to any of it, give them the finger on your way out the door. They do not deserve the spit to swear with.

Holy Shit.

Oct. 22nd, 2007 05:43 pm
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
My god!

I found a doctor who listened to me, didn't treat me like a moron, didn't want to fix problems that aren't problems, didn't mind if I swore, could have cared less about my depraved sexual history so long as I was safe and honest, asked about my activity level and not my weight, answered about a million annoying questions and asked some really insightful ones -- as opposed to routine ones -- about my health, actually decided not to treat me with antibiotics until she knew for sure what sort of infection we may be dealing with (this is so rare as to be unheard-of), and managed to take a biopsy without causing me any pain whatsoever. That last one is, like, I don't know, a sign of the friggin' apocalypse. I did not know it was even possible to do such a thing.

I had already decided not to bitch in detail about my bad experiences when I came in. I merely handed her the list of "Please Don'ts" and told her that I had actually had all of those things done to me in the past. She read down the page, her eyes got really wide, and then she started laughing at my increasingly sarcastic wording. "That's awful! WE AREN'T LIKE THAT HERE."

And indeed, it would seem so.

Then she looked at the sheet again, shook her head, and said "Can I keep this?" So it's all in my file.

They use cloth gowns, none of that paper crap. And a neat little rocket seat instead of a nasty exam table. It was about as horror-less as these things get. And get this: test results in less than a week. I've never had a doctor say that. Never.

Only time will tell if she turns out to be a giant preying mantis in disguise, or an alien clone, or an evil robot, but so far, she seems great. Very warm for a doctor, and very competent. She put up with a very pushy, forward me with good cheer, and complimented me on taking such good care of my health.

HOLY CRAP WHAT A RELIEF.

I should not have taken my last Klonopin for that. Totally unnecessary.

Holy Shit.

Oct. 22nd, 2007 05:43 pm
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
My god!

I found a doctor who listened to me, didn't treat me like a moron, didn't want to fix problems that aren't problems, didn't mind if I swore, could have cared less about my depraved sexual history so long as I was safe and honest, asked about my activity level and not my weight, answered about a million annoying questions and asked some really insightful ones -- as opposed to routine ones -- about my health, actually decided not to treat me with antibiotics until she knew for sure what sort of infection we may be dealing with (this is so rare as to be unheard-of), and managed to take a biopsy without causing me any pain whatsoever. That last one is, like, I don't know, a sign of the friggin' apocalypse. I did not know it was even possible to do such a thing.

I had already decided not to bitch in detail about my bad experiences when I came in. I merely handed her the list of "Please Don'ts" and told her that I had actually had all of those things done to me in the past. She read down the page, her eyes got really wide, and then she started laughing at my increasingly sarcastic wording. "That's awful! WE AREN'T LIKE THAT HERE."

And indeed, it would seem so.

Then she looked at the sheet again, shook her head, and said "Can I keep this?" So it's all in my file.

They use cloth gowns, none of that paper crap. And a neat little rocket seat instead of a nasty exam table. It was about as horror-less as these things get. And get this: test results in less than a week. I've never had a doctor say that. Never.

Only time will tell if she turns out to be a giant preying mantis in disguise, or an alien clone, or an evil robot, but so far, she seems great. Very warm for a doctor, and very competent. She put up with a very pushy, forward me with good cheer, and complimented me on taking such good care of my health.

HOLY CRAP WHAT A RELIEF.

I should not have taken my last Klonopin for that. Totally unnecessary.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Over the course of reading your comments, I realized that a lot of you aren't aware of the particulars of my bad run-ins with the medical profession, and so I thought I'd delineate them for future reference.

A lot of you recommended I go to Planned Parenthood, and while I would like to say that I am very much behind Planned Parenthood in theory, and while I support their mission of bringing affordable health care to women who really need it, I am very much against going to my local clinics personally.

First of all, Planned Parenthood is divided into regions, and not all regions offer the same services. The one local to me, for example, does not offer vasectomies or abortions (or did not, last I enquired).

Also, the local clinic is staffed by total bastards. More on that in a moment.

First, the beginning of the story.

Cut for those of you who would rather not know, those of you who have heard it already, and those of you who were there. )

So that's my tale of woe. I know it's not as bad as some of yours, for which I feel profoundly grateful, no offense. I nevertheless hope that nobody reading this ever has as much trouble as I have had. If you carry one thing away from this story, learn this: you are the responsible party for your health care. If the professionals you hire do not treat you with respect, go elsewhere (provided you can) and when you leave, make your displeasure known, preferably in print. You don't have to take their shit. You are entitled to be treated like a human being, no matter how fat and multiply pierced and slutty -- or virginal -- you may be.

There's a happy ending to my tale, at least. Sargon stepped up to the plate after the last dose of fuckery and decided to get snipped.

And the doctor? Dr. Clark Tingleaf of Claremore, Oklahoma? Gave us no shit whatsoever. The experience was so different from what I have had to endure when it is my body and my decision about what you get to do with it, or what I want to do with it, that it wasn't even funny.

It's enough to wonder what it is about the sight of my pussy that drives people insane.

Anyway, I won't openly publish the bad doctors' names because that might be a stupid thing to do, legally. It would also be stupid because, well, I don't want them getting hate mail or dog shit or death threats that might ever be traced back to me. I'm over the "actively seeking retaliation" phase. But if you are a woman living in Oklahoma, and you want to know who to avoid, I will point out that someone has given negative reviews to Drs. Bitch, Douchebag, and Fucking-Cunt at RateMDs.com.

I will issue a blanket warning against Tulsa-area Planned Parenthoods. I cannot recommend them for anything more complicated than prescribing birth control and administering STD and pregnancy testing. Anything more complicated than that, and you are probably better off seeking a second opinion with a wino in a gutter. The wino will at least let you share his MD 20/20 before he punches holes in your cervix with a rusty icepick.

And with that image I leave you, my beautiful dreamers, and bring an end to this subject for now. I wish each and every one of you better luck in the trenches than I have had.

* My favorite limerick goes like this:

There once was a woman from Tours
whose cunt was all covered with sores.
The dogs in the street
wouldn't eat the green meat
that hung in festoons from her drawers.


No dinner that incorporates cooked spinach is complete without it.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Over the course of reading your comments, I realized that a lot of you aren't aware of the particulars of my bad run-ins with the medical profession, and so I thought I'd delineate them for future reference.

A lot of you recommended I go to Planned Parenthood, and while I would like to say that I am very much behind Planned Parenthood in theory, and while I support their mission of bringing affordable health care to women who really need it, I am very much against going to my local clinics personally.

First of all, Planned Parenthood is divided into regions, and not all regions offer the same services. The one local to me, for example, does not offer vasectomies or abortions (or did not, last I enquired).

Also, the local clinic is staffed by total bastards. More on that in a moment.

First, the beginning of the story.

Cut for those of you who would rather not know, those of you who have heard it already, and those of you who were there. )

So that's my tale of woe. I know it's not as bad as some of yours, for which I feel profoundly grateful, no offense. I nevertheless hope that nobody reading this ever has as much trouble as I have had. If you carry one thing away from this story, learn this: you are the responsible party for your health care. If the professionals you hire do not treat you with respect, go elsewhere (provided you can) and when you leave, make your displeasure known, preferably in print. You don't have to take their shit. You are entitled to be treated like a human being, no matter how fat and multiply pierced and slutty -- or virginal -- you may be.

There's a happy ending to my tale, at least. Sargon stepped up to the plate after the last dose of fuckery and decided to get snipped.

And the doctor? Dr. Clark Tingleaf of Claremore, Oklahoma? Gave us no shit whatsoever. The experience was so different from what I have had to endure when it is my body and my decision about what you get to do with it, or what I want to do with it, that it wasn't even funny.

It's enough to wonder what it is about the sight of my pussy that drives people insane.

Anyway, I won't openly publish the bad doctors' names because that might be a stupid thing to do, legally. It would also be stupid because, well, I don't want them getting hate mail or dog shit or death threats that might ever be traced back to me. I'm over the "actively seeking retaliation" phase. But if you are a woman living in Oklahoma, and you want to know who to avoid, I will point out that someone has given negative reviews to Drs. Bitch, Douchebag, and Fucking-Cunt at RateMDs.com.

I will issue a blanket warning against Tulsa-area Planned Parenthoods. I cannot recommend them for anything more complicated than prescribing birth control and administering STD and pregnancy testing. Anything more complicated than that, and you are probably better off seeking a second opinion with a wino in a gutter. The wino will at least let you share his MD 20/20 before he punches holes in your cervix with a rusty icepick.

And with that image I leave you, my beautiful dreamers, and bring an end to this subject for now. I wish each and every one of you better luck in the trenches than I have had.

* My favorite limerick goes like this:

There once was a woman from Tours
whose cunt was all covered with sores.
The dogs in the street
wouldn't eat the green meat
that hung in festoons from her drawers.


No dinner that incorporates cooked spinach is complete without it.

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