I was told your peers on the medical review board will see this letter. The day you squeeze out a human being from between your legs is the day you will have earned your license as a doctor thanks to your closed-minded, dismissive attitude toward women. I couldn’t believe I had to appeal and work so hard for a simple test that would shed light on my troubles. I did not realize you were an arbiter of the services within my rightful reach. You were supposed to be my advocate. Little did I know I would have to prove to you my credibility as a patient. The testimony of my experiences and attendant symptoms was not significant enough. Since when is patient history insufficient? You “did not find it medically necessary” to learn what I could rule out to care for myself appropriately. You “did not need to know” right now? Who said my welfare is about you?
Do doctors really have to make us feel so stupid? Don’t dismiss women’s pains and symptoms if you don’t have a vagina that does different things throughout the month, and I won’t laugh when you hit andropause. But since you shouldn’t apologize for having been born the gender you take obvious chauvinistic pride in, you might see a female urologist next time. She should understand you as well as you can handle my concerns, yes? Acknowledge the limitations of experience and understanding your gender brings to your occupation and listen to your female patients. Rather than see us as people, you sit there matching symptoms against your sacrosanct checklist and call it science. It’s glorified plumbing. You seemed to think your job was to plug my case into your textbook paradigms and criteria of legitimacy. Doctor – while you don’t consider compassion, support, partnership medically necessary – your task, in the least, is to investigate problems on our behalf. Show respect for women who are obviously in tune with their bodies, not to mention educated. Most of us are not airheads or liars. If we tell you we feel terrible, believe us. Last I checked, this was America and my PhD in embryo development and childbirth that trumps your book knowledge entitles me to feel seen and respected as a human being when I walk into a doctor’s office with female concerns. You can’t begin to call yourself a physician until you remember that.
*Don’t ever let any practitioner or medical staff member make you feel small. If there is no site supervisor, pursue it with the licensing board or state medical society. Doctors with the God Complex ruin it for the dedicated professionals who make every difference.
Hi, you have a brand with organic ingredients for the lips? The color I have in mind is a cross between plum and raspberry. No, a little brighter than that but not pink. Would you have it as a lip liner? Matte but creamy.
(Eh, a little lighter than I wanted.)
Oh, I wish I were a man.
I know why the Serpent went to Eve first. She had thought God was speaking her language. “Don’t do it.” We’ll talk some more, she thought. If Adam had stayed single the poor, simple man would’ve just listened to His Maker. The Serpent knew he could bring the world crashing down on its head if he could tickle Eve to analyze what God’s word had really meant and why He had said it.
I’m just glad God is a man.
Speaking of guilt, our new miniseries is right around the corner.
What is UP with the drama? Look, I don’t need any. See me over here sitting quietly on the end of the girly, feminine spectrum? I hate shopping, don’t do eyeliner, clip these nails the moment they’re long enough to go. If you want to torture me, force me to endure a bridal or baby shower and make me play the games – your idea of fun. I have nothing to add to inane talks about your favorite TV shows because I’m a bore who doesn’t watch TV or movies. I’d rather be writing my book on the meaning of life. Are you getting this? I’m not a busybody, don’t know pop culture, don’t gossip. And I still attract drama.
Because I am a woman.
Oh, to be a man! When life is as simple as the pork juice on your chin and the beer bite on your tongue. To be able to hear yes and no without translating no and no. To enjoy the peace of mind that a few minutes of exchange will not spin into a saga. Why in the world did I spend those months investigating the sport of fighting, wondering why men punched one another and then hugged? Oh, if I could upper cut a woman who pushes me over the edge, shake her hand, and call it good with some honest fun in a mean game on the court. Only with women could a BFFship of years dissolve in one hard acid day.
And how do you men take your nice, strong arm and sweep the clutter of To Dos off your mental table? It’s a gift – the amazing ability to check in with yourself, distill competing voices down to your need in the moment. Why did I ever complain of your one-track mind? Food, sex, game that’s on, sleep. You just roll over, close those eyes, and…”Honey? Honey? I was saying –” You’re gone. Way off in a deep sea of sweet nothingness. I’m jealous. I’m stupid. I mean, why wouldn’t I want sex or sleep? Ah, but I carry within the million-dollar answer. Hostage to hormones. People say that time of the month like it’s one day. It can run a week, people. And that’s all just the merry prelude to the bloody show. Did you know many of us also feel discomfort and get emotional when we ovulate? How many clear and free days does that leave us in the month? I’m pleased not to be one of those women who can call up tears at will. But catch me on the right days, and I’m a bawling mess. Weeks like this, I’m not sure which is worse. To be a woman or to have to live with one.