It’s Time For A Sexist-ectomy In Hospitals

My recent experience with a kidney stone was infuriating. I’m not alone in my fury.

I woke up at 9 a.m. on New Year’s Eve — unusual for me over winter break — with severe pain in my lower back.

I immediately — and unwisely — investigated WebMD, which gave me a few conclusions: 1) I had appendicitis, 2) My gallbladder exploded, or 3) I was pregnant (which, unless I was the incarnation of the Virgin Mary, was impossible).

I was taking turns between wandering around the living room and sprawling on the couch as I whimpered. The times I was on the couch, my dog Ernie hopped onto my stomach, which felt like a snow globe filled to the brim and extremely fragile. I hoisted him up by his doggy armpits and tried putting him back down on the ground, but he hopped back up on me anyways. I almost vomited. Mom picked Ernie up off of me and felt my forehead. She fetched a thermometer to take my temperature. A perfect 98.6.

“I think you just have a stomach bug,” she concluded.

I got up and paced around in circles, darting to the bathroom every 10 minutes to vomit up the water I just drank. I decided I needed to see a doctor ASAP. They had one appointment left before closing for New Year’s Day, so I got my mother to drive me up…