The Girl and the Gyno

I have to find a new gynecologist. 

This may not seem like a big deal, but when you are overweight with body image issues, past Pap trauma, and no money, it can be a bit of a challenge. It's not something that I wanted to do, so I have been putting it off. But today I woke up with it on my mind, so I went to the list of gyno's I found on Google weeks ago and began to call around for questions and quotes, my anxiety at an all-time high. 

The first time I called Dr. A, her receptionist hung up on me. We will give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that it was a mistake. The second time I called I said hello and introduced myself for the receptionist to say in an annoyed voice, "Can you hold on?!" Before I could answer, she clicked over to another line, leaving me to listen to bad elevator music. I ultimately hung up before she could come back on the line, but waited a good while, hoping I would get the chance to yell, "Hey! Don't you know I am the daughter of a woman who ignored symptoms in her body until she literally dropped dead? I am trying to be proactive here biotch! How about a little compassion?!" That chance never came. I was tired of listening to scratchy Kenny G songs. 

I had a good feeling about Dr. B just looking at her name on my list. Her receptionist answered the phone after two rings, and her voice was bright and sunny. I thanked her for being so nice, because Dr. A's receptionist was rude. "Oh no! Rude already? It's too early in the morning!" My sentiments exactly. She and I chatted for a moment before she told me that the price of getting a Pap uninsured is $500. Sadly, I had to pass on that. 

Dr. C was a joke altogether.  First of all, she had that annoying phone system where you have to press 1 or 2 to get to speak to the person you need to speak to. I finally got to a receptionist that didn't sound rude, just overwhelmed. She put me on hold for so long that I ended up back on her line. She then forwarded me to a voicemail box that I am 98% sure never gets checked. 

By the end of it all, I found myself in the fetal position, panicked and anxious. How is it that we have little blue pills for men so that they can be 100 and sustain an erection, yet there is no at-home Pap test for well-meaning large women who just want some semblance of healthcare with no patience or money? I mean come on, where is science when you need her?!

I gave myself a break and streamed some TV before getting back on the horse, looking for someone to tend to my kitty. No luck today. Damn America's strict medical protocols. I am sure that in another country I could get this done by a med student for $20 in the backseat of their car. 

My Red Hot Diflucan Summer

Do you remember that tiny pocket of time before the Delta strain of COVID chased us back in the house where we were actually enjoying a Hot Vax Summer? I use the word "we" as I refer to the culture. I wasn't participating in any of those brunches or birthday parties highlighted on social media. I was at home whimpering over my throbbing, itchy vagina. 

Many of my friends don't understand how I made it to nearly middle age without ever having a yeast infection and neither do I. I mean, when I was 18 I was wearing thongs to class in 700 degree New Orleans heat and was somehow spared. However, my good luck was no match for being put on an antibiotic for a toothache I was having. 

I'm surprised you didn't hear about it before now. I called any friend that would listen, complaining and whining. 

"Stop drinking cranberry juice!" Jamaica screamed into the phone. "That is for a UTI! Drink more water! The sugar is feeding the yeast!" This she tells me as I literally had a straw in a family-sized jug of Ocean Spray! 

"I know that you took a Diflucan Holly, but you can also use a vaginal anti-fungal," my mentor assured me. "Nothing will happen." I didn't believe her. I was fearful that I could die from some sort of vaginal overdose. In my defense, I was being irrational. It was hard to sleep, seeing that my gyn had a thick, heavy, heartbeat that rung in my ears whenever I closed my eyes. 

To add annoyance to injury, I sent my aunt to CVS to get me Monistat 1, a one-and-done treatment, and she came back with Monistat 7, a seven-day treatment! The treatment comes with these plastic pipe-like things. Who wants to be plastic-pipin' it for 7 days? Not I said the cat! 

"Oh shut up pampered pussy and use the damn cream!" Winfrey hollered at me, irritated by my sobbing into the phone. Tortilla was my only friend that showed me any compassion. She didn't make fun of my irrational fear of anti-itch cream. She's very patient with my phobias. 

The fact that women get these, some even chronically, should be front-page news! But just in case you haven't gotten one, let me leave you with some adjectives: itchy, throbbing, swollen. It's way worse than those treatment commercials lead you to believe. They will have you thinking that a yeast infection is just mildly uncomfortable. NOT! It's hellacious! 

Luckily, I lived through it to tell you about it, but it was touch and go for a minute there. Just know you have a sister in me when you inevitably end up yeasty, your cookie smelling like a medicated piece of toast. Aw, to be a woman. 

Keeping It Real With Lisinopril 2

When I was in high school, I was a cashier at a Popeye's in a very shady part of town. It has since been regentrified, but when I worked there, it was an outdoor crack house. So often drug addicts would lock themselves in the men's room to sleep or use drugs. But them I could deal with. It was one of my co-workers, Janiesha, that I couldn't stand! She had a horrible attitude and was known to curse out managers and customers alike, so I was not surprised when she was fired because of a bad interaction with mystery shopper.
A few days after she got fired, she showed back up at the job in a loud sweater dress that cut up her butt cheeks and tried to coerce my manager, Phil, into the bathroom. I thought that she wanted to talk to him privately, but my co-workers informed me that she was probably trying to give Phil a blowjob to get her job back. I remembered wondering why it was that serious for her? Atlanta was full of low-paying, dead-end jobs that don't care if you have ever been fired.
I have to say that I felt like Janiesha as I slinked into the pharmacy to ask for some emergency blood pressure meds. The doctor at the drugstore clinic told me that she couldn't give me any meds and that I needed a primary care doctor. Duh! But then she told me that I could go to where I usually get my prescription filled and ask for some emergency pills.
"Wait, is that a thing?" I had to make sure, because it sounded like something that wasn't completely on the up and up and I needed to know if I was could possibly be risking jail time.
"Yes, but they will only give you a few pills to hold you over until your primary care doctor calls them with a real  prescription."
UGH with the primary care doctor!
But I didn't have a choice. It was either there or the same ER that has killed three people that I know.
"Hi!" I said in a happy, fun, unnecessarily slutty, girl at a frat party voice to the pharmacist behind the counter at the pharmacy. He did us both a favor and pretended that I didn't sound ridiculous. The sound of my voice was making me sick. But I kept a tight smile on my face, happy that the pharmacist wasn't someone that I went to school with.
"Hello!" he said kindly. I was the first customer, showing up right as he flipped over his open sign.
"Listen, I need some emergency blood pressure medicine as I am looking for a new doctor," I said, trying to hypnotize him with my eyes, which I was once told were hypnotizing.
My heart was beating out of my chest. There was no way that he was going to give them to me. If people could just walk up and ask for free drugs then pharmacies wouldn't get robbed.
He asked me my name and date of birth, then began to type in his little computer. I kept a nervous, creepy smile on my face as he did so, then he vanished out of my view.
He's going to get security or call the police, I thought. My instincts told me to run but I couldn't. Yet again I was unable to flee the scene of a crime because of my cheap shoes.
"Damn it!" I said to myself as he reemerged with a bag with two prescription bottles in it. He handed me the small bag of meds and I immediately felt stupid for acting like such a tramp.
"How much?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said, looking over my shoulder. He was ready for the next person in line.
"Thank you," I said, slinking out of the pharmacy as pathetic as I had slinked in. I felt like such a Janiesha, but was grateful that I wasn't on my way to the ER.
Now begins my search for the primary care doctor. I'm not excited. Stay tuned.