Droplets of cold sweat rode my spine like a rollercoaster. My hoodie was too loose and my track pants too tight. I shivered in the reception’s air-conditioning, and I dreaded the questions I knew my General Practitioner (GP) would ask.
‘Have you had sex recently?’ and ‘Are you sure you’re not just on your period?’ were repeat offenders. This day was no different. If only I had the courage to answer that question with:
‘Yes, Melinda, I am on my period, that’s the fucking issue. I’ve been on it for three fucking months!’
Despite there being only one other person in the waiting room, I waited twenty minutes past my appointment, and when I finally got called into her office, it smelt like chicken. Oddly pleasant, if not for the patient chair sat uncomfortably close to hers, and the almost deadpan way in which she stared at me.
I explained my symptoms in excruciating detail, then asked, ‘Can we please take some steps to eliminate whether or not I have endometriosis?’
‘No.’
This sent me on a rather unsatisfying hero’s journey. Through the canyon of Medical Gaslighting and the bottomless sea of Birth Control Band-Aids, I tried my very best to find my El Dorado at the end of the road. Instead, I found more women just like me, who had also taken the perilous journey across Outrage Gorge and found themselves yelling into the Interweb Abyss.
To grasp the magnitude of my GP’s response, let’s first examine what endometriosis is and what makes it such an internet viral and prevalent issue.
Endometriosis is when the endometrium (the tissue lining the uterus or womb) grows in other parts of the body. It is a progressive and chronic condition that gets worse over time. Endometriosis has the high potential to render people with wombs infertile the longer it goes untreated, and it has no real cure. This makes detecting it earlier very important for the overall health of the person involved. People with the condition must take medicines to prevent the worst symptoms, and statistics show that about ‘1 in 9 females in Australia develop endometriosis and it causes tens of thousands of hospitalisations every year’.
It has become such a hot button topic that the Queensland and Federal Labor governments invested a combined amount of over $1 billion in women’s health, opening 22 new endometriosis and pelvic pain clinics nationally, aiming to improve outcomes for women with endometriosis and pelvic pain.
We’ve all seen viral videos of people recounting their experiences with shitty doctors, and how their more serious problems (especially endometriosis) were overlooked to the detriment of their reproductive health, quality of life, and fertility. In fact, the main reason why I decided to talk to my GP about it was one of my friends, Jo, who recounted to me the symptoms her mother experiences from endometriosis.
Abnormal period lengths? Check.
Notoriously unpredictable periods? Check.
The Niagara Falls of periods? Check.
In hindsight, it was a normal occurrence for my GP to prescribe me birth control. It was a flawed solution. You’re suffering horrible and constant acne from the raging hormones of your abnormally heavy period?
Take the pill.
The pill is so reactive to you that it actually gives you constant periods?
Arm implant (Implanon).
Oh? The arm implant didn’t get rid of your bleeding like I had falsely promised you? It doubled your bleeding, and you bled for more days in a month than not?
Get back on the pill to stabilise it.
It continued until that fateful day. I couldn’t comprehend why we didn’t try to address the root issue instead of blindly slapping band-aids on an open, constantly bleeding wound. My symptoms aligned with endometriosis, yet my GP refused to even test for it. And what did she instead recommend?
An IUD.
‘I’ve heard of that. Could you tell me a bit about the pain of the procedure?’
‘Oh, there’s barely any pain,’ she said.
‘Would I get any pain relief? Any prescription pills?’
‘No, you won’t need it. Nurofen is the most you'll need.’
That was it. I was done. She was a liar. I’d done my research and knew all too well that an IUD insertion procedure can be incredibly painful, and doctors (including a viral anaesthesiologist) have advocated for localised anaesthesia at the minimum for these procedures.
I stood, fiddling with my phone that had pages of script for me to say, and I left her office never to return.
I found a new GP a couple of months later, and while I was hopeful that she’d be better, my last GP was female and dismissed me as much as any male ones had.
I made the conscious effort to show up with make up on, and I avoided sweatpants to be taken more seriously. Her desk took up the space between us. My leg bounced as I sat in a chair. The office smelt like nothing—as if it had been cleaned and the detergent smell had since faded.
I left my first appointment with an ultrasound referral, a handful of blood tests, and a plan of action going forward. I consider myself one of the lucky ones.
While I appreciate more light being shed onto the issue of female’s health and endometriosis—and welcome the Labor government’s investment with open and eager arms—the problem stems deeper. Our trained and educated GP’s do not take our health and pain seriously, and until the pervasive and sexist attitudes towards women’s health is weeded out, this is not going to stop with me, or the countless others screaming bullshit.
Euri Glenn is a neurodivergent writer, editor, poet, and actor who hails from Jambreen/Tamborine Mountain. They are the Publisher and Editor in Chief of UQ’s Jacaranda Journal, and are currently based in Meanjin/Brisbane, studying a master’s degree. Through her work, Euri seeks to inspire change for the better of the world and the creatures who dwell within it. You can find her on instagram @euri.chelsea.glenn and her other publications here.