Why I Chose Planned Parenthood Over the ER
I woke up on Wednesday morning, about an hour before my alarm was set to go off, feeling an at-first familiar pain in my pelvic area. I say familiar because, every so often, I am woken up in pain like this in the early morning due to the recurring cyst on my left ovary rupturing. I say at first because I quickly realized that I was not experiencing ovarian cyst rupture but something different, an immense pressure that was localized to what felt like my uterus and cervix. It felt like there were two large fists, the kind of doughy old man hands you’d expect to see clutching a bialy or wrapped around the armrest of a La-Z-boy on gameday, occupying the space on either side of my cervix, pulsing and flexing with each breath I took. I texted my boyfriend, and then the professor for my 8:00 am class I now knew I would be late for.
Wednesdays are my hardest days; I have class from 8:00 to noon, and then I get straight on the bus and head to my internship downtown from 1:00 to 5:30. After about two hours of clutching my lower abdomen, I managed to roll out of bed, spritz my hair with dry shampoo, gargle, and pencil my eyebrows. I threw on a sweater, wool skirt, and my tall boots and was out the door. With each step, I could feel those hammy fists, shaking and grabbing at my flesh as if the Birds had just thrown another interception. I sat through my two classes with my head in my hands, nodding my head through our exam reviews.
“I cannot afford to feel this way right now,” I kept telling myself.
Everyone was telling me I should call a doctor or go to the Emergency Room. And they were right: if you are in so much pain that you cannot walk, you should go to the ER. Except, that’s not really the case when you’re A) a woman and B) your pain is femme-specific. Women just aren’t as believed when they say they’re in pain, especially when it’s emanating from their vaginas. The first time I went to the Emergency Room for an ovarian cyst, they wasted FIVE HOURS scratching their heads and telling me they couldn’t figure out what was wrong because, despite my insistence, they refused to consider that my pain was pelvic. When I finally got an ultrasound, the technician told me he knew cyst rupture could be “uncomfortable,” but that I should try to calm myself down. After an entire night in their care, the staff discharged me with no answers, no recommendations, nothing. When I told my regular doctor that I was having these episodes monthly, where I would wake up in the middle of the night in so much pain that I couldn’t move or speak, she didn’t seem at all concerned.
I knew I needed help, but I couldn’t afford to spend half a day in triage only to come away empty-handed. So I called Planned Parenthood and asked to speak to a nurse. I explained to her my symptoms and that I believed there was an infection causing problems with my IUD. The soonest she could get me in for an exam was the next day.
“Why are you waiting a whole day if you’re in that much pain? You have insurance, just go to the doctor.”
At this point, I knew I was coming off as hysterical. My well-meaning friends and family were just giving me what should be the logical solution to my problem. But I refused to subject myself to the misery and infuriation of not being believed again. So I waited.
In my dream, a man was sitting on me, digging into me with his bony hips, crushing me under his weight. I woke up at 7:43 am on Thursday morning and there was no man, just pressure. I texted my boyfriend again.
“At least you’ll get an answer today.”
I made it through my two classes and again got on the bus, and then the metro, for the hour-long trip to DC’s Florida Avenue neighborhood just on the other side of N. Capitol Street. I had given myself extra time so that I could collect myself and try to relax. I stopped into Union Market and bought a #13 arepa — my usual — adorned with black beans, plantains, and queso fresco. I sat for twenty minutes and watched a new mother try to corral her twin boys back into their car seats. Then I ordered a large Americano and walked out in the rain towards the brand-new clinic.
As I neared, I saw one of those vans with all the gory fetus pictures on it, emblazoned with “Repent!” over and over. I took a deep breath. I deal with these kinds of men all the time, yet it never gets easier. One told me he would pray for the baby I was killing, another was already praying. They droned on about their disgust that this particular Planned Parenthood neighbored a school. The irony of them holding banners of disemboweled (albeit fake) fetuses in front of said school was not lost on me.
I made it inside and was greeted by a rush of warmth. Even the security guard was a beautiful woman, welcoming me and complimenting my nails. The lobby was immaculate yet cozy, like the leasing office of an apartment building I could never afford to live in. I wanted to come back with my laptop and a dirty chai and do my homework or instagram a picture of my breakfast. Framed outlines of condoms and IUDs lined the walls, with stone details and a yellow accent wall. I was tempted to ask for their decorator’s card.
Within minutes of my arrival I was in an exam room as a nurse took my temperature and asked me intake questions, cooing at my visible pain like she would if I were her own child.
Before my Americano had even gotten cold I was receiving the pelvic exam I was so sure I needed. My doctor, who had not once doubted me, confirmed what I had thought. A previous infection had not totally cleared up, and had now traveled further into my vagina. She assured me that she understood just how much pain I was in, and thanked me for coming in so soon. She lamented that many women delay reporting their pain, often leading to more serious complications. Infections like mine, unchecked, can cause scarring of the uterus and Fallopian tubes, often necessitating surgery. Luckily, I was not at that point, and because I was able to get the care I needed quickly, I should be fine with a strong course of antibiotics and a follow-up next week.
I probably could have gotten the same answer in the ER, but it would not have been worth the hours, the frustration, or the copay. The staff at Planned Parenthood trusted my instincts and respected me enough to believe my pain. The care I received was warm and deeply personal, without feeling casual or unprofessional. I had arrived at 3:15 and by 4:30 I was already leaving with a treatment plan in hand — and pain medication, which no doctor has ever even so much as offered me for a similar complaint before.
I have great insurance. I live in a large city with great hospitals and doctors a short uber ride from my apartment. But I’ll be schlepping on the Red Line all the way to NoMa-Gallaudet from now on for anything that concerns my vagina. Hell, I’ll go to one of the locations in Maryland before I ever go to a general practitioner again for femme-pain. Being believed is worth it.
