The day I knew I had to take charge of my health was the third time that month I ended up in the ER. I was bleeding so heavily that when I went to the bathroom, clots the size of grapes dropped into the toilet — thick, dark and unending. I scrubbed the floor so no one else would see the mess, embarrassed by something I couldn’t control.
When the nurse asked me to put on the gown minus underwear, a clot fell to the floor. I turned red in embarrassment, and I heard both my husband and the nurse gasp.
Still, they sent me home. No answers. No medication. No follow-up call from my primary care physician. Just more pain, more confusion and the quiet realization that if I wanted to survive, I’d have to become my own advocate.
The issue dates back to my teenage years. Maybe then, it was too early for my doctors to detect that I was having periods every two months, which was abnormal, but I’m pretty sure it was problematic in my 20s.
I was told that maybe I had polycystic ovary syndrome, or PCOS, a hormonal disorder that causes irregular periods, infertility and excess hair growth, but I was never actually tested for it. I have always been a plump baddie, so the inevitable weight conversation overrode the complaints of skipped periods, excruciating cramps and heavy bleeding when my cycle did make its appearance.
In my early 20s, I lost weight, dropping from 250 pounds to 180 pounds, only to experience the same cramps and heavy bleeding. Each doctor suggested that I continue to lose weight, which would improve my condition. It never did.
In my 30s, my hormones were slightly off, but not enough for treatment. My moods and cycles were unstable, making conception difficult. Therapy helped my depression, so we revisited family planning — which meant returning to the OB/GYN. With trust low, I still went in, and I was prescribed birth control to regulate my cycle, despite doubts about its relevance to childbirth.
The first cycle on birth control was rough — worse cramping and bleeding than before. By the third day, I couldn’t keep anything down. Despite repeated MyChart messages, I was told to stick with the pills. After nearly three months and no relief — even as my routine revolved around managing pain and mess — I finally called the nurse while I was on the bathroom floor, and they told me to go to the ER.
The first ER visit that month resulted in tests, fluids and a brief rest, followed by the administration of graham crackers before being sent home. My doctor, having seen that I’d had an ER visit, scheduled an appointment — but by then, the period had already ended. She suggested a possible dilation and curettage, or D&C, a procedure that involves widening the cervix and using an instrument called a curette to scrape and remove tissue from inside the uterus.
My doctor informed me that during the D&C procedure, they did not see anything of concern, and the procedure restarted my symptoms without any new pain relief. I soon ended up back at the ER with a repeat of the first visit.
The third time I was in the emergency room was that fateful day when I decided “enough is enough,” and I went to Google to see what else I could do. One suggestion was to try another doctor. That may sound silly to you, but I didn’t know that was an option.
Honestly, I never thought about it, nor did it occur to me until I did that search and found out they work for me. My insurance payments help maintain their quality of life, and if I wanted something different, I had the right to demand it.
During 2020, when medical burnout was rampant and hospitals were overwhelmed, I was afraid to eat because nothing stayed in my stomach. I was bleeding through the longest and thickest pads, and I had to take off almost every week because I was in too much pain to walk; the rest of the time, I was lying in bed working.
Although I was barely eating, I was gaining a lot of weight from the swelling. You guessed it — I was back to feeling defeated and depressed. So, I scheduled an appointment with another OB/GYN at another hospital. I made sure, for starters, she was Black.
I felt that being a Black woman could play a part in my medical neglect. It turns out I wasn’t imagining the difference. A Kaiser Family Foundation study found that 1 in 5 Black women reports being treated unfairly by health providers because of their race. After learning about the racial disparities in health care, I then understood that I will never not have a Black OB/GYN.
By the time I met with my new doctor, I was well-prepared with research, clear boundaries and a strong voice. My period had been wild and rampant for five weeks, and she explained that the birth control I was prescribed (which I quit taking when I set the appointment) had too much estrogen. Apparently, my body was low in testosterone, and too much estrogen was causing my pain. Can you imagine how livid I was to find out the pills caused me pain and cost me money, time, peace, self-esteem and confidence?
Imagine feeling disgusting, taking multiple showers a day because blood won’t stop running out of you, even in the shower, and losing intimacy with your husband because of it. One day, I bled through to an office chair. A great co-worker helped me scrub the seat as I bawled in embarrassment. I had exhausted all my sick and vacation time, so I had to take unpaid days. The medical bills with a high balance were not covered by my insurance.
As my mind returned to the present, I noticed my doctor had paused, as if she was waiting intently for my next response. After a long pause, I proceeded with, “I need this period to stop. I have read that if you prescribe me progesterone, it will make my period stop. Once it stops, a follow-up appointment for an IUD installation can be set.” She looked at me in amazement and uttered, “OK.” Confidently, I walked out of there with a prescription for progesterone, Naproxen for pain, and a follow-up appointment to receive an IUD.
After that appointment, the bleeding stopped within a week. A week later, I received my IUD. For the first time, I felt like I had a say in my health. A year later, my husband and I moved to Chicago, and I found another Black OB/GYN. She was very thorough. She described the shape of my uterus and details about my reproductive system I’d never heard before. After years of having a low thyroid count, I was finally prescribed thyroid medicine. My mood stabilized within two weeks.
Today, I have a healthier approach to my reproductive system. Although not all my doctors are Black, I always advocate for myself when something is not working or when I am not being heard. No more waiting on MyChart messages. I call, and if I reach that third call, I am replacing you. There are a million of them and only one of me, and I need me to survive.
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