It’s More Like a Five

A doctor dismissed my pain because I’d driven myself to the clinic. Now I bring my teenage daughter to appointments—not for support, but as a witness.

Photo by Gizem Nikomedi on Unsplash

I was more twisted than a pretzel. My belly ached. The pain was worse than menstrual cramps. I had uterine fibroids and they were painful. My doctor asked, “What are your plans for your uterus?” She was encouraging a hysterectomy, but I was in my mid-forties, raising a preschooler alone—there was no time for surgery and no one to help.

To alleviate the cramping, I was referred to another doctor who suggested an IUD. Hopefully I could stand upright once it was implanted. It seemed like a win/win. We scheduled an appointment for the insertion.

The day arrived, instead of the doc performing the insertion, a relatively new nurse practitioner was on deck. She introduced herself with an easygoing smile. My stomach was falling into my platform heels. I had a bad feeling about this. But since I was there, I got undressed and into the stirrups. My first mistake.

Painful doesn’t come close to accurately describing the insertion. This foreign body was jabbing my uterus like daggers. Sitting and standing both hurt. I wondered how I would sleep. The nurse practitioner told me to take Tylenol for any pain and call the clinic if there were problems.

There were indeed problems. The first night’s pain was tolerable with the IUD. The fibroids were still doing their thing. With each passing day, the pain crept from a tolerable five to an intolerable seven. By day three my side hurt, and it was painful to walk. I had an active four-year-old who wanted Mommy time, and I had to maintain our single-parent household. I was picking up Barbies and books in extreme pain. It didn’t feel right; I didn’t feel right.

My seventy-something mother urged me to go to the clinic and tell them something was wrong. She was looking at flights to Seattle to check on me and the grandbaby. Ever cheerful (God only knew how I faked it), I’d be alright. After clicking “end” on the call, I felt my pain radiate. It wasn’t going away. I had shortness of breath, and my whole body hurt. I wasn’t Super Mommy; I was Hurt Brittany. And scared. Like my mother, friends encouraged me to call the clinic. I acquiesced. There was no other choice.

By day four the pain was intolerable. I ate Tylenol like candy so I could get into my car to drive. Why did I drive myself? Because all my friends were at work. I had no one else to call. The clinic thankfully was a short distance from my home, so the trip wasn’t too difficult. I sopped up my tears at each traffic signal. It hurt that much. I brought my daughter with me as I couldn’t get across town to take her to Montessori. I bribed her with candy, McDonald’s, and endless movies if she let me rest.

Walking into the clinic was painful; standing upright was a chore. My daughter dutifully stood at my side and opened the door for me. Her face said, “My Mommy is sick.” I checked in and waited to see someone, anyone other than that nurse practitioner.

My name was called, and I was brought back for an ultrasound. A new doc was in the room. I sensed she was more senior; she gave off that vibe. She was White; there were no Black doctors on staff. I preferred Black doctors, as I knew White doctors believed myths about our pain—such as our nerve endings being less sensitive than White people’s. The senior doc thought it was best to get a picture of what was going on. I nodded my head in agreement; we were getting somewhere.

Before I hobbled to the table, I made sure my daughter was set up with her doll to keep her busy. I had no choice but to bring her—my on-call nanny service didn’t have anyone to send over before my appointment. So I was stuck.

The doctor asked me a crucial question as I positioned myself on the table: “On a scale of 1-10, how much pain are you in?”

I told her nine. It was hard to walk, talk, sit, or sleep.

Her response felled me: “Did you drive here?”

Confused, I said, “Yes.”

Then the appointment fell apart.

“If you could drive, you’d be at a five.”

I shook my head vigorously. No; that was definitely wrong. I recounted how much pain I was in. Nothing could sway her. I gulped. I was stuck. They didn’t believe me. Willing myself not to cry, I let them put the cold gel on my abdomen. The wand slipped over my belly. The pictures didn’t show anything abnormal with the IUD or my fibroids. But to be safe, I was getting sent over to the hospital for more imaging.

I asked what to do for the pain.

“Tylenol,” the doc said. I mentally gave her the finger. I gathered myself and my child and got out of there as quickly as I could.

Sitting in the car, the pain worsened, but I made it home in about fifteen minutes. Once home I emailed my manager and told her I was out for the week. There was no way I could manage work.

After my call, I took three Tylenol. They did nothing.

***

The next day, I was in worse pain. Tylenol was ruining my liver with how many I was gulping down. In retrospect, I should have taken a cab, but I didn’t think of it. I willed myself to drive on my own. Somehow, I got my daughter to Montessori. The pain was so severe I had to sit in the office before walking her into her classroom. The staff asked if I was alright. I shooed them away. I made my way back to the car before heading to the hospital.

Pain was an old friend; I breathed through probably the worst of it and kept going. Checking in was mercifully quick; I sat in the nearest chair. As soon as I did, the tech called my name. I tried to stand, but I ended up bent over. I couldn’t walk anymore. I took slow steps toward her.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

With a well-deserved attitude, I said, “I’m in pain.”

“Oh.”

She walked at a brisk pace. It was clear from the clinic to the hospital that no one gave one shit about my care.

Cold gel was squirted on my abdomen. The wand slid over my body trying to locate the source of the pain. Nothing was conclusive; the tech saw nothing that could be contributing to my pain. She said the film would be sent to the doctor today.

Retracing my bent-over steps, I went home with a sticky belly and no cure.

I took a few Tylenol before driving home. It didn’t help.

A few hours later, the new doctor from the clinic called me. She confirmed there was nothing on the film to indicate where the pain was coming from. Her suggestion was to take out the IUD. I had asked about that earlier, but I was shushed by the first doctor I saw (she was protecting the nurse practitioner).

Now they wanted me to come back for removal tomorrow. Before I could say yes, the new doctor told me the nurse practitioner would perform the procedure.

I found my voice and roughly said, “No. That woman will never touch me again.” There was a pause, and the doctor agreed to do the procedure.

I won.

The IUD came out faster than it went in. Within minutes I was back on my feet with a prescription for Toradol sent to my nearby pharmacy. I was told how and when to take the pain medication, and I left.

The weeklong nightmare was over. I was free from that clinic. Never going back there again.

***

A few weeks later, I met a nurse at a party and relayed my horror story. She gasped at the ineffective care. She asked a smart question: Why hadn’t I gone to the ER? It never occurred to me. Something inside me must have believed my pain truly was a five instead of a nine. Or perhaps I was afraid of the same or similar treatment by the ER docs. My pain didn’t feel like an emergency (it was).

This experience stayed with me. I feared getting gynecological care. Now It’s years later. I have to see a new gynecologist for something I’ve ignored. I’ve cancelled not once but twice. I’ve pushed this out as far as I can. I may not make the appointment in March. But it’s necessary; I’ve ignored my body for far too long, and it’s taken its toll.

The only provider available is White and male. I expect very little. I’ve asked my daughter, now 18, to go with me.

She said, “Sure, Mama,” and clasped my hand tightly.

We got this.

Brittany V. Miles writes fiction and creative nonfiction exploring motherhood, mental illness, and generational silence within Black families. Her essay “Feral” (MUTHA Magazine) was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and her fiction has been shortlisted for The Letter Review Prize. Her writing has appeared in Newsweek, Business Insider, and The Seattle Times and Open Secrets, with forthcoming work in Five Minutes, Tir Literary Magazine, and Minding Our Business: A Blacklandia Anthology on Mental Health and Healing. You can find her writing at morethanguardians.com