Validity

I had two moles removed from my back last Tuesday, and the ensuing days have been a constant struggle to keep my mouth shut and not complain.  Leading up to the surgery I told everyone how minor of a procedure it is.  “In and out” were the words that I used most often.  I said “It’s just a precaution” and “They’re both really tiny” a lot, too.  And ultimately, I was right.  The whole visit took less than two hours and most of that was waiting around for the local anesthesia to kick in.  I couldn’t feel the excisions at all.  Then it was a simple matter of keeping the dressing on for two days and starting a twice-a-day cleaning routine.  Not a big deal…

The pathology results came back Friday and I found out that both moles showed ‘cellular atypia.’  From what the nurse (and a bunch of websites, because you know I can’t leave well enough alone) said, cellular atypia may progress into cancer in the future.  But both moles were completely excised, as opposed to biopsied, so I have nothing to worry about.  Everything is completely okay.

So.  End of story.  Cleanse wounds twice a day, watch for infection, move on with my life.

But you know what?  I want to complain a little bit.  I’ve never had anything like this done before.  This was a real surgery, no matter how minor.  And the results came back less than perfect, even if the doctor did completely remove any questionable bits to get said results…

I want to whine that the little holes on my back twinge every time I move wrong and that the prescribed hydrogen peroxide burns like hell when applied.  I want to bemoan the fact that I can’t bend down or reach sideways without pain.  I want to rage a little bit that the skin on my back is completely ripped up from changing the gauze twice a day.

So I got to thinking.  Why haven’t I been complaining at all this week?  Why have I been doing everything in my power to downplay this whole thing?  Here’s what I came up with…

After this procedure, I kept thinking about how well I felt I was treated by the doctor, the nurses, and the staff.  They were extremely accommodating and they did everything in their power to make sure I was comfortable- an extra drape on the table because it was chilly, a modified half gown since I had to be bare from the waist up, two stress balls to squeeze while they injected the anesthetic.  Little things, really, but they made a big difference.  While the doctor marked off the areas she was going to remove, she kept rubbing my leg and explaining what she was doing.  The nurse rubbed my arm and asked me several times throughout the short procedure if I was alright.  Yes, the procedure was short and easy, but the people at the office made it that way.

I’ve been seeing this dermatologist for about 13 years, so I thought maybe that was the reason everyone was so kind.  I imagine if you see someone once a month from the time they are a pimply little awkward pre-teen, you might get a bit attached to them.  But then I thought (and this may be a bit naive of me me but…) isn’t that how medical professionals are supposed to act?  You know, bedside manner and healing people and all that jazz?  Aren’t you supposed to feel comfortable with the people you trust with your health?

I don’t know what kind of medical experiences people out there have had, but speaking just for me, I’ve had some pretty bad encounters with doctors.

Throughout my life, my physical health has been pretty good.  Sure, I’ve had my share of bumps in the road and health problems, but who hasn’t?  I’ve never been the type to run to the doctor for every minor issue, and I’ve always kept up with my necessary yearly exams.  Keeping that in mind, I’m not sure why doctors have always been so awful towards me.

When I was about 7, my pediatrician told me I would have to get a mole on my arm removed, but it was “way too big and a much more serious procedure then they could handle.”  So, being 7, I was appropriately terrified.  The doctor I was sent to wouldn’t perform any procedures without doing his own skin check first.  All I remember of that traumatizing day is crying while standing in nothing but underwear in front of a strange man who yelled at me for crying and then said “I’m certainly not going to perform an operation on you if you can’t take this seriously.”  The offending mole remains on my arm to this day.

At 15 I had pains in my lower abdomen that were so bad I couldn’t get up off the couch for almost 12 hours.  When I went to the doctor I was told I might have kidney stones, but they couldn’t do anything.  I should come back in a few days if the pain continued.  The pain continued.  During the second visit, the (male) doctor had these words of wisdom for me:

“I know you don’t drive yet, but there’s this thing that happens when you drive.  You’re driving along, and you see a cop car on the side of the road.  Now, you know you haven’t done anything wrong- you’re going the speed limit, you haven’t gone through any red lights- but you panic anyway. That’s what you are experiencing.”

If a doctor said that to me today, I think I would murder him with my bare hands.  Really?  What are you trying to say?  Are you saying that I think I’m getting my period? (I’ve been getting that since I was 13, thanks.)  Are you saying I’m experiencing some type of false pregnancy?  What exactly are you trying to say to me with your bad driving metaphor?  Oh, you’re saying I’m making this up, right?  You’re saying that there’s nothing wrong with me and this pain that I’m having isn’t real.

After that lovely encounter my mom took me to a gynecologist, who proceeded by sending me for an ultrasound.  There were three cysts on my ovaries that had burst.  I was diagnosed with poly-cystic ovarian syndrome and sent along my way with a prescription for birth control.

Those two stories are simply the two most extreme of my encounters with doctors.  All of the things like snide remarks about my body type, questionable exams, and generally being ignored barely merit mentioning.

So back to my original question- Why haven’t I been complaining at all this week?  I think that I’ve been trained (by medical professionals, no less) into downplaying any and all of my physical ailments.  I think that keeping my mouth shut is the product of a lifetime of being told that nothing is wrong with me.

Now here I sit, leaned slightly to one side as to not bump my wounds, my back sore and itchy, thinking…  How am I going to act the next time something like this happens?  The next time I’m really sick, or the next time I have to get some type of surgery, what am I going to tell friends and family?  This time I hid it.  I told as few people as possible beforehand and I’ve kept it as almost a secret afterwards.  I don’t think I’ll do that again.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to shout it from the rooftops.  But I’m not going to hide it either.

My name is Rebecca and both my health and my body are valid.