November 18, 2005
Repro Depot
Nerve's reproductive rights issue is out. Jill at Feministe gives a comprehensive round-up of the juicier pieces and provides a meaty, insightful critique. She does an especially good job dealing with this article about a "pro-choice" woman who thinks second-term abortion is a "sin" and feels "revulsion" for women have second-term abotions. Jill articulated my reaction to the piece more eloquently than I could have done. Whereas I probably would have written "the author is a self-righteous ninny who uses one hand to pat herself on the back for having gone to pro-choice rallies while using the other hand to shake a finger at women who actually have abortions," Jill puts it thusly:
Personal, private discomfort is one thing. Talking about it is fine. But that isn't what she's talking about here -- what she's actually saying is, "I do not trust you to be your own moral decision-maker. I believe that my moral misgivings are more valuable and valid than the decisions you make about what goes on in your own body. I believe there is a right way and a wrong way to have an abortion, and you're doing it the wrong way."
That's why you should read Jill. Also highly recommended is BitchPhd's (old) post about the misogyny of the pro-choice with stipulations position.
The other article that caught my attention-- and Jill's, too-- was Baumgardarner's article about the stigma of second or third (or forth or fifth or sixth) abortions amongst the pro-choice set.
There were a couple of moments in Baumgardner's article where I had to go 'huh?' What the hell is a "mentsrual extraction," for instance? And then there's this:
Pauline Bart . . . suggested at a screening of "Speak Out" that younger women learn to do abortions themselves just as the collective of women known as "Jane" did pre-Roe v. Wade. "It's just like taking a melon-baller and scooping out a melon," she said, referring to performing an abortion in ones' own apartment. I nodded earnestly but thought, "No, it isn't." Or, at least, it isn't to me. I don't doubt that some women experience abortion as devoid of angst as Pauline Bart depicts, and for them each abortion is created equal.
Does Baumgardner harbor reservations about D.I.Y. uterus mellon-balling because of abortion angst? That seems to be what she is suggesting, but that is so puzzling that I can't even make sense of it. D.I.Y. abortions = not good. I agree with her there. But their not-goodness has nothing to do with the emotional weight of having an abortion. I don't have any moral angst about having my tonsils removed, but I'm not about to grab pliers and some barbeque tongs to pull 'em out because removing tonsils, like removing the products of conception, is a medical procedure with a certain amount of risk involved and it would fucking stupid to try to do on my own. First-term abortions are, as far as invasive medical procedures go, straightforward and not very risky. But it ain't mellon-balling. Without sonograph equipment, products of coneption (especially if it is very early in the pregnancy) can be left behind. Scraping the uterus can leave scarring if done incorrectly and complicate a woman's future fertility. Hemorraghing can happen. That's why it is imperative that abortion be legal and available in safe situations, hospitals or clinics, by medical professionals who know what they are doing and are prepared to handle all possibilities. I understand that in certain situations people have to do the best they can-- whether that means inducing abortion at home because abortion is illegal or treating cancer with folk remedies and prayer because medical treatment is unavailable or unaffordable or whatever. But that's not what we should be aiming for.
Anyway, something in Baumgardner's article did strike a nerve. I mentioned once on this blog, just in passing, while yammering on about my health-insurance woes, that I had an abortion. Yes, I had an abortion. About two months ago, I was out for drinks with then-boyfriend Brett and a bunch of our friends. The topic of med school came up-- one of the friends is thinking of applying-- and I guess we were talking about rotations, and Brett mentioned that his sister, a med student, said that the rotation she liked the least was her gynecology rotation, when she worked in an abortion clinic, and that she found that experience upsetting. Something about him saying this kind of burned my fur. What was his point? That abortions are sad and upsetting? I bit my tongue at the time-- after all, if that's what she said, that's what she said, there's nothing to argue with there-- but later asked Brett what he meant by that and why his sister found it so upsetting. Part of it had to do with her personal 'ick' factor, fine. But part of it was that she found it upsetting that a lot of the women who were there had already had multiple abortions. "Why is that upsetting?" I asked. I don't remember what his answer was. I do remember that it ticked me off. Part of it had to do with women who didn't use birth control and who were irresponsible-- more or less the same old 'abortion as birth control' panic as usual.
I pointed out that, as I had already had an abortion, if I ever got pregnant again, I would be one of those women who'd had more than one abortion. "No, not like you," he said, "you're resposible. You're on the pill. I don't mean women like you at all." Of course, I was responsible and on the pill when I got pregnant (by him) and had abortion numero uno. I don't remember how the argument ended, but I went to sleep feeling insulted as well as pissed. Pissed because who was he to judge the women whose circumstances he did not know, insulted because I felt at that moment that I was one of them-- one of those women.
I think Brett had a harder time with the abortion, in some ways, than I did. While he did not have to deal with the physical discomforts of pregnancy and abortion, he had a kind of guilt about it that I never did. Both my parents are doctors and my aunt is a doctor who performs abortions. The attitude on sexual matters in my home was a practical, straightforward realism. People who have sex sometimes get pregnant. Even people who use contraception get pregnant. The pill has a small failure rate even with perfect use. I just happened to get (un)lucky.
Brett, though, felt bad, like we'd done something wrong. Since I was on the pill, we didn't use condoms, and he felt responsible for getting me knocked up. A few weeks after the abortion, when we started having sex again, we used condoms because I'd changed pills and was adviced by the doctor to use a secondary method for a few weeks while my hormones settled down. When those weeks were up, I wanted to stop using condoms, but Brett was wary. What, he asked, if in another eight or nine or ten months you get pregnant again, is that just how it is going to be, every so often you get pregnant and have an abortion?
Well, the short answer is yes. I'm not with Brett anymore, but I'm twenty-two years old, I plan on having sex and hope I have lots of it. I'm also, as it turns out, ridiculoulsly fertile. The odds are that before my eggs are up, I will get pregnant again. I don't plan on it, don't look forward to it, and certainly don't want it to happen. Realistically, though, it will, and if and when I do, I will have another abortion. Which is why I still feel like I'm one of those women.
Posted by hissycat at 07:36 PM | Comments (6)
November 17, 2005
All Hail Evolution
Behold: The Vagina!
& coming soon: abortion jokes and a brief history of my uterus
Posted by hissycat at 09:45 PM | Comments (3)
October 18, 2005
OH FUCK
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. The papers handed over to the White House include a record of her opposing abortion. It's not a surprise, per se. But still: fuck.
On the other hand, perhaps it is just as well that any illusions that Miers could be alright are drying up.
Posted by hissycat at 03:30 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
October 17, 2005
My Imaginary Testicles
Note: I started this entry last week, or maybe even the week before. In any case, I started it before the Bad Things happened. It is somewhat less timely now, as the New Yorker story is likely no longer available online. Oh well.
I highly, highly recommend the Jeffrey Eugenides shorty story, Early Music that ran in this last week's New Yorker. It is a beautiful, moving story. I love Eugenides.
The last time I read a story by Eugenides in the New Yorker must have been in 2001 or 2002 because it was before the publication of Middlesex. The story was, in fact, an excerpt from Middlesex, the episode involving Cal and the Object. Cal, who is in secret teenage love with the Object, has sex with the Object's brother and is hit by a tractor, the result of which is the discovery of hidden testicles.
After putting the story down, I started imagining what it would be like to suddenly discover a secret testicle. I started to imagine myself in Cal's position (such are my identifying-with-the-protagonist ways). What would I do if I had an undescended testicle? Would I, like Cal, change my identity and live out my life as a man? Would I have surgery? Wouldn't surgery send the wrong message, politically? How would I explain this to dates? Would I have to tell my friends? Would it help me with a book deal?
Now, I had no reason to suspect I might actually have hidden testicles. Unlike Cal, I had had sex without searing pain. I had been examined by a gynecologist. And I had never noticed any, um, lumps on my own. But I'm crazy and live too much inside my own head. I became totally preoccupied with my imaginary testicles. I made all sorts of plans for how to live my life in the aftermath of their inevitable enterance. I mean, I was convinced that I had secret testicles. Sure, there'd been no sign-- yet. It was only a matter of time.
I confessed my fears to my roommate a few days before a bad fall off my bike that left me with stitches in my bottom lip and evil bruises. One bruise in particular, on the inner side of my knee, took on a life of its own. A lump the size of a , yes, of a tesiticle congealed under the purple skin. The lump had a density and consistency unnervingily like those of, yes, a testicle. I made my roommate touch it. "Doesn't it feel like a testicle is growing out of my leg?" She totally agreed.
"Your undescended testicle totally descended," she said. "To your knee."
"I told you so."
Hence, her nickname for me:
Testicle "Knees" Undisclosed-Surname
Posted by hissycat at 03:54 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
October 16, 2005
Just Checking
You know when you wake up at five in the afternoon, and your hand is on your genitals and you wonder, 'Wait, when did I take my panties off? And Why?' And then you try to find your panties and as you lift your hand away from your bits to have a feel around and you realize something is binding your hand down, and then you realize that you are wearing your panties, you just shoved your hand into your underpants before you fell asleep and left it there, and then everything makes sense? So, when that happens to you-- What? Oh, that never happens to you. Yeah, me either.
Posted by hissycat at 06:42 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
September 07, 2005
My Boob, Like My Dignity, Is Damaged. Also, Lumpy.
I behaved somewhat badly at orientation yesterday. I arrived late and caused a commotion knocking things over on my way to find a seat at the far end of one of the two long, long conference tables. My bag was exploding stuff,and it took me a while to collect myself and get settled. Iasked questions about health insurance that caused the HR-bot tobacktrack and repeat herself because she misunderstood what I wasasking, and then an obnoxiously slick-looking, pastel-button-downwearing youngish man who, if I overheard correctly, is an English Ph.D.with a teaching post (figures) had to translate my question for me andask it again. I kept getting up to go pee and causing a rumpusand I stole handfuls of post-it pads that were set out in littlebaskets on the conference table so we could mark up our packets andbrochures as we followed along. Because I didnot feel the need to pay attention to the slide shows about all thewonderful perqs Stanford has to offer and because the lectures on HRAs,retirement plans, and long-term investing was both painfully boring andutterly beyond my powers of comprehension, I unfocused my ears, pulledout my laptop, and turned my attention to the html and css I waswriting. Essentially, I was behaving at any unbearably boringStanford lecture.
Aside from a few conspiratorialsmiles I got from a fat, sassy older woman in a colorful blouse acrossfrom me who I assume was some wise-cracking humanities appointee freshfrom an east coast institution, recognising me as one of her own kindand sending me her tacit approval, everyone else clearly dissapprovedof me. A young Asian woman, irritatingly tidy (she was eating her scone with knife and fork) and preppiliydressed, was sitting across from me, right next to Prof. Sass and keptshooting me looks that were if not nasty then at least mildlydisgusted. On the rare occaision I lifted my eyes from the laptopscreen, I would catch her sort of tsk-tsking me with her eyes. Then she'd quickly glance away. They all thought I was a young,dumb, ill-mannered brat. As well they should have. Mydress, which I had grabbed that morning without thinking, wasinappropriately low-cut. I didn't notice how ho-baggy I lookeduntil mid-morning when I spilled half a thimble of half-&-half onmy lap. I looked down to survey the damage and saw my cleavagelooking back up at me, smiling. No, not smiling. Itwas smirking. Smirking menacingly.
Neither surprising nor entertaining, my boredom and impoliteness at anHR function. But you will need to know all this for later on.
Because my insurance is not all set up, I was told by the hospitalyesterday that the quickest way to get seen was not by scheduling anappointment but by calling this morning and requesting a same-dayvisit. I did. This morning, I called and was given a 10:20appointment with a general practitioner. Brett drove us becausewe'd both slept in a little late and because I'm picking him up latertoday anyway; I snoozed in the car. Brett grabbed me some Googlefeed and I drove back up to P.A.. It was 10:07 by the time I wason Campus Drive, but the street I was looking for was not where Iremembered it to be. I was driving at a crawl, reading streetsigns, looking, feeling abused and shaky. I turned into adead-end road to pull a U when I noticed the red and blue lightsflashing behind me.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?"
"No."
"You ran a stop sign."
He asked for my licence, registration and proof of insurance. License? No problem Registration? There was shufflinginvolved, the glove compartment unleasing its contents into the rest ofthe mess and filth on the floor, but eventually I found a square ofcarstock whose numbers and words were printed in an old sans-seriftypwriter font and which looked out-dated and inefficient enough to beproperly beaurocratic and offical (think: Weight Watchers,pre-computerized booklets, when we had actual paper, alphebetized filesto carry up to the scales with us so the staff could write a numberin); I asked if it was my registration and it was. Insurance? Sorry. No go. I lose. He wasnot impressed when I offered to show him the electronic copy on mylaptop.
I got a moving violation for the stop light and for the insurance, anappointment in Palo Alto traffic court where I have to prove that I dohave insurance by producing "just a print-out of that thing."
I was sniffing back tears as he explained to me what I could do toclear my record (traffic school) and how it wasn't such a big deal.
He was extremely nice, actually. I wasn't upset over the tickets,I was just feeling late and ill-treated by the universe and he seemedso competent and kind as he gave me directions to the clinic I waslooking for that I lost my hold of myself just a little.
I pull into the parking structure about twenty minutes after I wasscheduled to show up at the office and immedeatly proceed to drive mycar into a parked tow-truck. Hard. But I finished pullinginto the spot and didn't pause to check the damage on my own car as Ihurried away. In the wrong direction.
I don't know how late I was when I got there. In the exam room,the nurse took my vitals. I knew I'd been off the wagon a lotlatelly. I avoided going last week because I didn't want toweigh-in, and I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't142lbs. I mean, that can't be accurate. I was 136 a weekand a half ago. I want to be 130, which is what I was this timelast year. But I keep failing, failing, failing.
The medical assistant looks over my chart and asks questions. Sheasks, "so the reason you are here [pause] is [pause as she adjusts herface] a blump?"
A blump? I stare blankly at her for at least fifteen seconds as Itry to understand what she is saying. A blump? What? Could that be the medical term for--
She interrupts my thought: "A lump. A lump in your breast."
"Oh, yes," I say. "Right."
"Your right breast?"
"No. Left one."
She leaves. The doctor comes in and she's young, which already Idon't like. She's young and she's preppy and she's Asian. She looks somewhat familiar, but then there are a lot of doctors andresidents at Stanford that are young, preppy and Asian. I don'tthink much of it. She's looking at my chart, asking me morequestions. All of a sudden she interrupts herself; "Wait, youwere at the orientation yesterday, weren't you? Yes, I wassitting directly across from you."
Of course. My dissapprover.
My confidence in this doctor is dealt another blow. Strike two.
I rattle off my list of medications: Zoloft, 150mg; Wellbutrin 100mgtwice a day; Ritalin, 20mg three times a day (though it is actuallyususually four); and birth control. "And who writes theseprescriptions?" she asks, and it seems like she is asking, "and what isthat person doing with a medical licensce?" too.
"Dr. Harriet R---" say I.
"And who is Dr. R--?" she asks.
"Um, a doctor. A psychaitrist." She looks at me like I'vejust told her I take pills given to me by my imaginary friend. "I've been seeing her for, like, four and a half years."
"Oh, that's good. That's greaaate." Her voice ispurposefully soft and ingratiating and she speaks slowly while noddingher head with what I suppose is meant to be understood ascompassion. She is incredibly condescending. Strike three,but it's not over.
I had written A.D.D. as one my medical problems on my historysheet. I see her looking over at it and then she asks, "So, theRitalin you take, is that to help with conentration" --I am about toanswer yes, when she continues-- "or do you actually have A.D.D.?"
What the fuck is that? "Um, both?" I stutter, dumbfounded. It can't be possible that she doesn't know what A.D.D. stands for, itjust can't. Is she implying something, the preppy bitch? Iso do not understand what she is asking.
"And what kind of birth control do you use?"
"Ortho Tri-Cyclin,"
"How long have you been taking it?"
"About four or five years. Well, for a very brief time I was onOrtho TriCyclinLo, but that was disastrous, it totally did not work. "
"In what way was it disastrous?" she asks.
"Oh, in the way that I, you know, got pregnant."
"Maybe it was too Lo!" she says. Then she giggles. ha ha.
"And do you smoke?" she asks, even though she knows I do, the goddamn sheet I filled out is right in front of her.
"Yes," I say. I know exactly where this is going.
"How much?"
"I don't know exactly. Maybe seven or eight cigarettes a day."
"Who writes your prescriptions for the pill?"
I tell her I don't know her name, but it's the nurse-practitioner atVaden whose latexed digits have paid call to nearly every studentvagina.
"Vay -der," she sounds out very slowly. "What's Vader? What's that?"
I have to explain it's Vaden, and it's the student healthclinic. She asks about my visits with nurse at Vader(meaning, she asks howthey could possibly continue to write prescriptions for the pill),until I realize she must think I go there and get a new prescriptionevery month. Which is retarded. I explain to her that birthcontrolprescriptions (in my experience) are prescribed by the dozen, so I onlyhave to see the nurse once a year and then every month I just have topick up a pack from the pharmacy.
She tells me that smoking in combination with the pill is risky, thatsmoking while on the pill puts me at risk for blod clots. I knowshe has to say these things, but I thought she was a little over thetop. She kept saying how she would never have prescribed contraceptives for me and how she neverallows patients who smoke to take the pill. And how, if I wereher regular patient (by now, of course, I'm thanking my stars that I'mnot), she would take me off the pill. She asks me if I've triedto quit and said yes, I had, but hey, I'm smoking again. She frowns disapprovingly. "For now, I won't change this, butnext time you're here, we'll have to discuss this. I don't let mypatients smoke and take any contraception at all. It puts you atsuch a high risk for clots."
I realized later, that it wasn't the Vaden nurse who had prescribedthis round of B.C., it was the gynocologist I saw last winter, when Igot pregnant, who I trust infinately more that this woman. Iunderstand smoking while on the pill increases the risk of blood clots,I really do, and I know that blood clots are nasty and bad. Butthe idea that she would have me on no hormonal contraceptive isidiotic. Beyond idiotic. I am twenty-two. I have lotsof sex. And, AND, I GOT PREGNANT WHILE ON THE PILL (with PERFECTUSE). Duh. I just told her that I got pregnant when theydropped me down to a lower dose of hormone. Taking me offcompletely? Bad idea! Big, fat, shiny, in-flashy-lettersBAD IDEA. Bad, bad, don't-even-think it idea. Reducinghormonal birth control = horrible idea, already tested and proved to behorrible.
The thing is that the doctor I saw today, Dr. Dumb, is just soyoung. I know what she was suggesting is probably, techincallywhat she is supposed to say. She was probably taught not toencourage women to smoke on the pill and she's just following what shelearned in class and in her textbook. But the thing is, thattelling me to stop taking the pill because I smoke is inane. Ofcourse my risk factor is higher than it would if I didn't smoke, but myrisk factor of getting pregnant if I'm not on the pill is so great,it's not even a risk. It's a flat-out guarantee. The gyno Isaw was an older woman, very business-like and matter-of-fact. Her brusqueness was very reassuring, like she'd seen it all before,like she was just too solid and competent to bother to slow her speechor otherwise condescend. The gyno knew I smoked and after shescraped my uterus with what looked like a shoehorn and hoovered theproducts of conception out of me and into a glass jar, she wrote me aprescription for a B.C. pill with a high dose of hormone. Shedidn't suggest I cease taking hormonal B.C.; in fact, she was all butfrisbeeing the disks of pills into my throat (orsomething). Because if some one is twenty-two, has intercoursewith a man or men, is fertile as all fuck, as has been proven by arecent unwanted pregnancy that happened while on the low dose pill, andnot only doesn't want to be pregnant but also would be medicallyadvised against pregnancy (i.e. psychiatric illnesses + medication+ fertilized human egg = dolphin fetus), then theincreased risk factor is worth it. Duh. I'm notsaying it's optimal, but it's reasonable. In fact, it's theonly choice that's reasonable.
Jesus gay this is a long post, and I'm not even up to the breastexam. I bet Dr. Dumb loves PowerPoint. Dr. Dumb totallyloves PowerPoint presentations. And uses (blech) comic sans for afun, informal look. Whimsy! I don't know how I know this,but I do. It's the feeling I get.
Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, my tit. Iexplain that last week, I noticed what I thought was a bruise, but thatthe color had gotten darker rather than lighter as the week wenton. Then I was poking around a couple nights ago and noticed abump. It's a sizable bump, near the bruise, just north of mynipple. Dr. Dumb asked me how I thought I had bruisedmyself. Had I had a bump or a hit? I told her no. Sowhat did you think it was from? "Well, I thought it was a, uh,hickey. But then I was out of town for the holiday weekend, awayfrom my boyfriend, and the skin darkened and reddened, so I had secondthoughts about its bruiseness." She asked family history, and Iexplained: my mother's sister has breast cancer; my father's mother hadbreast cancer when she was my age. She asked about my immedeatefamily. Neither of my parents has cancer, and I have nosiblings. "Technically," she said, "traditionally, the extendedfamily-- your aunt and grandmother-- don't count, they don't increaseyour chances of having breast cancer." She poked my boob alittle, but the more I think about it, the more I think she did areally poor job of feeling me up. It was the quickest breast examI ever had. Even the Vader nurse takes more time.
"It looks like it's probably a bruise," she said, "if you were poking,it's possible you irritated or inflamed some tissue. Have youever had a breast nodule before?"
"No."
"Well, it's a benign lump. Most lumps in women your age arebenign. So what I'm going to say is just to go home and keep aneye on it. If it's just a bruise, it might resolve on itsown. If it doesn't, then you should call and come back."
"Ok," I said, completely not trusting her. "Well, what's going to happen in a week if it does not go away?"
"Then we'll do a sonogram to find out if the mass is solid or if it'sfluid filled. But it is highly unlikely for a woman your age tohave breast cancer. Younger women tend to have lumpy bumpybreasts. Some growths do cause changes and discoloration to theskin, but that is probably just a bruise. Given your age and thatyou have no family history--"
"But I do have family history. My grandmother had breast cancer very young."
"Techincally, that doesn't count. There is no history of cancer in your immedeate family."
"But," I said, "the is only one other person with breasts in my immedeate family."
I did not want to wait a week, I said. "Well, that's what we do,"she said. I was still unhappy. "It's a good sign that thelump appeared suddenly, though." I explained that I only noticedit a couple days ago because I was intrigued by the bruising andprodding. I don't do regular breast exams.
"Well, if it is a tumor," she said, "it is probably not going to matter if we wait just a week."
No, really. She said that. She finally relented, "Ok, shesaid, since you are so concerned, I will see you in three days. Well, on Monday, because for Friday there is really no point. I'mmaking an exception for you. Normally I would say in a week ortwo. But because I don't want you to worry, I'll let you comeback earlier."
Well, gee, thanks.
She was getting ready to leave and she asked me, "oh, by the way, isthis weird for you? I mean, that we met at the thing yesterday?"
"No," I said. It wasn't weird for me because we'd met. It was bad for me because I didn't like her.
Most likely, it is just a bruise. I was a little frayed the pasttwo days worrying, but I'm not freaking out right now. It isprobably just a bruise, but I want to hear that from someone other thanDr. Dumb.
Tonight: insurance forms! Tomorrow: quest for a new physician!
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Posted by hissycat at 01:58 PM | Comments (35) | TrackBack
August 18, 2005
Best Lunch "Hour" Ever
Weight Watchers meeting (I lost a measly .2 lbs) anda trip to Vaden to pee into a cup (to confirm the obvious: a urinarytract infection)? Oboy! How can one girl be so lucky ?
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Posted by hissycat at 03:09 PM | Comments (629) | TrackBack