The Oophorectomy

I know that I signed something. I don’t remember if I signed it at 4AM or 11PM but I remember there being something about the stuff in my body, if removed, belonging to the hospital. I remember some kind of language around research. But I mean really, who cared then? I don’t even think my signature was beyond the first letter of my name that day. 

Anyway, the technician was right. It was an ovarian torsion. Rare but simple. Hella painful but not deadly. According the surgeons’ notes, it was black and entirely dead. He told me that he would try to save it if it was still alive. Perhaps a week ago, when I was having cramps, or when I had a UTI.

The point is that PRESTIGIOUS TEACHING HOSPITAL IN BALTIMORE owns my left ovary. My medical file from them ends at a quality control hearing by which half of my dead ovary was discussed. There was also another file that discusses half of my dead ovary. Where is the other half? Not that the half discussed is in an awesome place. I asked my doctor for it the day after. He told me that it had been destroyed. Not according to the quality control hearing a few months later.

Anyway. My primary gynecologist disappeared. He was a doctor at another hospital in Baltimore. I asked that my surgeon be my gynecologist. He seemed kind enough. He worked with Amish women and we discussed how his care practice has to be different with them due to concerns with modesty. He also led research in uterine fibroids. I liked him.

Unfortunately, he died a year later. A freak accident while fixing his bike on the highway. After that I worked with a midwife. PRESTIGIOUS TEACHING HOSPITAL IN BALTIMORE blamed a botched birth on her and due to the fact that PRESTIGIOUS TEACHING HOSPITAL IN BALTIMORE has a shit ton more money than a midwife, she no longer has her practice.