The other day, my husband looked at me and lovingly delivered what I thought was a Shania Twain quote: “It’s hard to be a woman.”
His observation came as I shuffled across our porch with a scowl on my face, frustrated at being sidelined yet again by another medical procedure. Since I’m not exactly a member of Team Twain, I’ve since learned the actual lyric is, “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” But honestly, the sentiment still stands.
As my body has seemingly turned against itself, I’ve found myself spending more time in waiting rooms, imaging machines, and LabCorp offices than I care to count. And more often than not, I’ve left those experiences feeling frustrated, dismissed, and adrift.
I have an incredibly creative friend who has dedicated herself to shining a light on the realities of menopause. When she recently invited women to share their stories, I immediately volunteered one of mine—the story of the letter I wrote to my doctor.
It took me two days to drop the envelope in the Kroger mailbox. The moment I let it go, I felt an anxious rumble. What if he actually read the letter and, worse yet, what if he responds to it?
It was only after I released my truth to the postal fates that I remembered I would have to face him again at a follow-up appointment in six months. But it was done, and per the rules of being a menopausal 50-something, I don’t give a crap anymore.
Over my gynecological lifetime, I have bookmarked some notable quotes from doctors:
- “If you didn’t have lumps, you wouldn’t have breasts.”
- “We need to make sure your vagina is moist. Let me call my wife and put her on speaker phone – she’ll know what to do.”
- “I can only talk to you about what you made this appointment for – nothing else.”
- “You know how I can tell you’ve done your breast self-exams? They’re not dirty!”
- “We’ll need to rule out cancer before we move forward.”
And those are just the greatest hits.
What bothers me most is that in every one of those moments, I said absolutely nothing. Not a word. I quietly absorbed those comments and allowed them to lower my expectations of what I deserved from the healthcare system.
Now that I am 50+ and menopausal, all of that has changed. This stage of life is actually “A Thing.” This metamorphosis occurs when “The Switch” is flipped, you join the “We Do Not Care Club” on TikTok, quote Mel Robbins’ latest book, finally establish boundaries around inequitable relationships, and, of course, write a letter of complaint to your doctor.
My missive was professional, but direct. It was addressed to the man whom I had met only once before my uterine fibroid operation. I explained that when we lie before you in that thin paper gown, we hold all our gynecological experiences inside. Our scars and stories make us vulnerable and cautious. So when an assistant types into a computer without making eye contact, when office staff seem unwelcoming or inattentive, when an in-person appointment is replaced by a phone call, or when a surgical area feels more like a scene from M.A.S.H. than modern medicine, it matters.
As luck would have it, the letter was received, read, and escalated. A few days later, I received a voicemail from an office manager. When I called back, and the receptionist pulled up my account, there was a sudden scramble to locate the manager. I was repeatedly assured—without asking—that she would receive an URGENT message to return my call.
Girl, I’m not playing phone tag. My work here was done.
What I needed, I had already given myself. Menopause may have drained me of a few hormones, but it also gave me something far more valuable: a spine. And, a pretty powerful pen.
Epilogue – I had undergone the same procedure again last week, and my experience was markedly different. Looks like my letter had an impact, and it won’t be the last one, because, as Shania also says, “I Ain’t No Quitter!”
