A patient patient

by Jillian Bogater (Exile From Hysteria)

I’ve been known as a patient patient.

I’m proud to say now that reputation’s shot.

I politely waited nine days to find out my assigned hysterectomy date, then busted my way in to ask: What’s the holdup?

I called. Three times. Finally a receptionist plainly told me the surgery scheduler had 40 procedures to coordinate and that I needed to be … patient. I told her I already waited nine days and deserved to at least know where I stood in the surgery line.

She took my name and number and said she would personally delivery my message.

Yesterday morning, at 7:30 a.m., I received a call from the scheduler, Melissa. It ends up something much more confusing caused the delay in communication. Melissa said the doctor forgot to submit my surgical request paperwork. Seriously.

She profusely apologized and offered to put me on a waiting list to jump up in line. Suddenly I felt awkward about my medical situation. It may have been the adrenaline from actually talking to the scheduler, but in the moment I wasn’t in pain. Almost as if endometriosis hadn’t bound my innards into a cruel bundle of knots. I told her I could wait the six weeks she predicted it would take once she received the official surgical orders.

I contemplated our near miss. It’s a good thing I disregarded all those “good girls wait” voices telling to just suck it up and be quiet. If I hadn’t been persistent, it would be summer and I’d still be politely waiting by my cell phone.

It never pays to be patient. Especially with medical issues. Especially with anything.

While I have great friends and family, an amazing support system … I’m really on my own in this. I have to be my own fierce advocate. And getting here has been no easy task.

Since I was a young girl, I learned to keep quiet about my pain.

With a history of not being believed  (both as a child and as an adult) I trained myself to ignore my discomfort. To the point that nagging abdominal pain recently resulted in a recommendation for a hysterectomy. I took this obvious disregard for my own well-being as a wakeup call.

No more delaying routine medical appointments.

When I have an ache or a pain, I speak out about it.

If I think a doctor doesn’t believe me, I get a second opinion.

Common sense? Perhaps. But I never felt empowered enough to make these seemingly simple decisions on my own.

True to its unpredictable nature, my endometriosis reared its ugly head later last night when lower back pain woke me from a deep sleep. I startled myself awake with a gasp, then Matt asked if I was OK. I could feel the ache wrapping around my waist; I tried not to move. As I stared at the ceiling, I counted two more mornings until it was Monday. I prayed that would be the day I would finally find out the surgery date.

I plan to give the scheduler until noon. Then I’ll pull out my phone.

I’m a patient patient no more.

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