I also tend to write about this as if people get the subtext. Or what seems to me to be the gross injustice. I have, up to this point, not had my pain taken seriously. By pain, I mean I scream through the night, I fall asleep because of the narcotics and wake to the sound of my own terror. I am sure that I am dying. I am sure that this is not cramps, I am not sure that this isn’t a UTI, but I feel crazy because this pain has immobilized me. The doctors do not believe my medical history because it is both untrue but for their purposes very true.
Suffice it to say, this UTI was either a beast, I was a punk, or this was not a UTI.
About five days have passed by now and my family is starting to worry. I’ve missed class. My uncle drives to Hyattsville, MD to pick me up. We leave my apartment (And my kitten, did I say that I have a 7 month old kitten who nuzzled my face during this whole ordeal? I do. She’s sweet. Her name is Nia.) and head toward my grandparent’s home in east Baltimore. People who know me, know my hospital heavy childhood, hear me moan through the night and call an ambulance. The nearest hospital is a well known teaching and research hospital. I arrive in the emergency room at around 4:00am.
Again the questions, the tests, and a pelvic exam.