When Saying Yes Was Not the Same as Giving In
After two years of wrong doctors and unanswered questions, one unexpected conversation finally led to bloodwork, real answers, and a hard-won yes.
The Yes
Post 7 of 10
Doctor number six. In case you've lost count, I had.
We're coming up on two years now. Two years of clawing my way back to myself — slow, uneven, a little more me each month, and then another kick to the gut just when I thought I'd found my footing.
My hair had finally stopped cracking off. Back on my own supplements, it started growing again — small, stupid, enormous victory. But the hormones? They were getting worse. Not better. Worse.
And here's the part that made my skin crawl. Somewhere in there, my phone seemed to figure out exactly what I was going through before I'd said a word out loud. I'd be lying awake with another hot flash, and the next morning my feed was wall-to-wall ads. Pellets. Hormone therapy. Feel like yourself again. It felt like being watched by the very machine I'd spent two years trying to escape.
So of course I was turned off by all of it. The pellets especially. Because the first people who'd dangled them in front of me were the same ones who wouldn't sit with me, wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't do anything but write the script and move me along. Whatever happened to doctors who actually wanted you to get better — not just stay plugged into the system forever, a customer for life?