My baby girl is turning five soon.
It is bitter sweet. On the one hand, I love watching her grow up, becoming her own woman. Sure, she has already formulated detailed plans to marginalized me and cut me from her life but for now she is still dependent upon me. We have fun together.
On the more sinister side of things, though, now momma needs a new IUD.
(insert groan of agony)
I have dreaded this day since the IUD was placed. I have enjoyed not having periods and not having to worry about pregnancy, having sex whenever I want.
Insurance changes say I cannot see the woman who placed my last IUD (she did a terrific job) and delivered my last baby. I am only allowed to see someone that is employed directly by the corporation I work for. Aside from the fact my patients are not particularly fond of the OB/Gyn’s employed by the system and the fact that I run into these people at meetings, the records will be in the EHR that I and everyone else in the system use every day.
This makes me exceedingly uncomfortable.
Intellectually I know that anyone who is messing with my hoo-hah in a clinical setting is not going to remember what it looks like when they run into me at a meeting. They are not going to care if the area is hairy or smooth or if the hair color matches what is on my head, or if I have stretch marks from babies. I also know that, in theory, anyone accessing my chart will be documented and recorded and will have to account for why they are there.
How many sexual partners have I had? You can be dang well sure that I am not going to be honest about that question, no matter what the real number is. Am I engaging in risky sexual behavior? If I was, I sure as hell am not going to tell them. What about screening for STD’s? If I were in a situation where that needed to be done, would I be honest about THAT? No frickin’ way.
So, I continue to agonize daily over which physician I will end up have to spread my legs for.
At least I have choices. Many women do not.