Azure Jane Lunatic (Azz) 🌺 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
azurelunatic) wrote2024-04-23 07:40 pm
azurelunatic) wrote2024-04-23 07:40 pm
Entry tags:
Gender in the state, the state of gender, and ... the tits - or - Transgender Gothic
I have determined that my tits are Too Much Problem. I found myself the one (1) non-pediatric Gender Health provider in this system in the state. A mere 10 miles away! We had a quick appointment in January, the soonest I could get an appointment, having scheduled several months earlier. It was a very brief appointment, and she seemed substantially overworked. She referred me to plastic surgery, after determining that my tits were causing health problems including one ER visit and an ongoing prescription, as that's often easier to get authorization for than pure gender reasons. The hair situation I'm on my own.
Within the week I got a call about scheduling my scan. "My what now?"
In very small and polite words, I told the nice scheduler from the imaging place that I was about to have a very detailed, very expensive imaging session at the cancer center, and I was Not Fucking Having a goddamn mammogram this year.
When I hadn't heard anything about the referral in about a month, I called back to check on the referral. Apparently it had Not Been Done Correctly. I got it put through, correctly this time.
I shortly got a call to schedule an appointment, some months out, to consult for a reduction. Beginning of April is fine, right?
End of March, I get a call. Operating room time just opened up, and since that is a scarce resource, I was being bumped. Next available appointment end of April. *sigh* Okay fine, I see that taking OR time when it's available is a good quality to have in a surgeon, and I am satisfied that when it is my turn, I will be treated with similar priority.
Meanwhile, I get a notification from the pharmacy. A prescription is on hold, because my insurance needs either more information from my doctor, or for my doctor to give me something else. I look at the medication. I compose an email to my doctor. It's the muscle relaxer, and I amuse myself by filling the remainder of the character count (exactly) with synonyms for "my large breasts". (I recruit the group chat to help, wind up within a few characters, and use line breaks to help make it more readable and use those last two.)
I sent that yesterday, after much giggling.
Today, I fielded a call from the office of the plastic surgeon. "Ah, must be some pre-appointment stuff," I say wisely to myself, and answer.
It's an assistant of some sort, who tells me that this office does not operate on people over a certain BMI. "But call us back when you've--"
Fortunately for all of us, they were able to halt their mouth's autopilot about there. (I've done phone work. I recognize the symptoms.)
"I know you don't make the policies," I said, and hung up before I could say anything else.
First I plugged numbers into a little calculator that was not designed to reverse the formula, but kept at it until I arrived at the magic number that I would have to beat. Then I did a little math. Based on that, they would want me to lose, hmm, yes. And about that goal weight-- oh. Oh. I emailed my own doctor with a short summary of the details ("After I am done having an absolute breakdown I will check into my other options").
I was crying by the time I called the chemo nurse line. The goal weight was one bad chemo session away from my high school anorexic low. The amount to be lost was not one but two tennis ball sized tumors away. I told the nurse's assistant who answered about the recent history I was working with here, and then fiercely said that I wanted the most radical mastectomy they had. Five minutes before, I'd been fine with the idea of a modest reduction but now I was thinking about paper guillotines.
She said she'd check with the doctors and see where they could refer me, and would try to get back in about 24 hours. Good.
Substantially calmer, and getting angrier, I emailed my gender care doctor, to convey this surgeon's specific threshold of underqualification, the magnitude of difference, and requested a new referral. I told house chat, and called Nora.
Nora provided Ianthe memes and brainstormed ideas for prosthetics. I could try for ones that fit my current bras (would still be smaller than my actual bazoingas) and see if we could fit in some zippered storage space.
Alex had a prescription to pick up and so did I. I decided to go in to talk to the staff about the situation.
At which point I learned: not only is my insurance company dicking me around about the muscle relaxer, but I have another prescription on hold because it's dicking me around about my CANCER. PATIENT. PAIN. MEDICATION. (In addition to the FUCKING PET SCAN, which it had an ENDOCRINOLOGIST deny, because I "wasn't" getting "traditional" treatment for my cancer. Yes, my oncologists Happened to them.)
Yes, I McFucking lost it. Which looked a lot like me calling the insurance company most of the names in the book, and the pharmacy tech nodding along with enthusiasm. "So, do you want the [small number] or should I tell your doctor ...?"
"I'm going to go full turbo-Karen here, please," I said, and then she complimented my dress and I complimented her pins and I wandered off to look at the summer selection of plastic dishes while she stuffed pills in bottles for me.
When I got home:
There is one (1) adult gender care provider in the state. This one is 30 miles away, specialty Urogynecology.
Within the week I got a call about scheduling my scan. "My what now?"
In very small and polite words, I told the nice scheduler from the imaging place that I was about to have a very detailed, very expensive imaging session at the cancer center, and I was Not Fucking Having a goddamn mammogram this year.
When I hadn't heard anything about the referral in about a month, I called back to check on the referral. Apparently it had Not Been Done Correctly. I got it put through, correctly this time.
I shortly got a call to schedule an appointment, some months out, to consult for a reduction. Beginning of April is fine, right?
End of March, I get a call. Operating room time just opened up, and since that is a scarce resource, I was being bumped. Next available appointment end of April. *sigh* Okay fine, I see that taking OR time when it's available is a good quality to have in a surgeon, and I am satisfied that when it is my turn, I will be treated with similar priority.
Meanwhile, I get a notification from the pharmacy. A prescription is on hold, because my insurance needs either more information from my doctor, or for my doctor to give me something else. I look at the medication. I compose an email to my doctor. It's the muscle relaxer, and I amuse myself by filling the remainder of the character count (exactly) with synonyms for "my large breasts". (I recruit the group chat to help, wind up within a few characters, and use line breaks to help make it more readable and use those last two.)
The pharmacy says the insurance company won't cover this without more information. That message may not have made it to your desk because it's for the prescription that the person covering for you put in for me.
Currently, my magnificent bazongas, my ridonkulous titty-witties, my humongous knockers, my oversized fun-jugs, my massive melons, my cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs coconuts, my spacetime curving phone booths, my hefty hooters, my ludicrous ta-tas, my royalty-sized marshmallows, my titanic teats, my unop-tit-mized milkers, my gonzo jigglypuffs, my octuple-D K-cups, are putting significant strain on my shoulders, back, and neck.
One of the ways this manifests is when I am not lying down, my neck is at risk for cramping. At least once a week I find myself with a warning twinge that tells me that I should grab cyclobenzaprine or lie down or both. Mere stretches don't fix it, but I have some in my daily routine (overseen by my physical therapist at FHCC). One of my past emergency department visits was for a screaming charlie horse of my neck that I was unable to manage at home. That was the visit where I first got cyclobenzaprine, which helped significantly. A connection I didn't make until afterwards was the day before that charlie horse was the first day I had worn a real bra in quite a while. It was notable because I had been at home without need for one and then had a Craigslist freecycling meetup where I felt a bra was needed.
My reduction consult is the 29th of April.
I sent that yesterday, after much giggling.
Today, I fielded a call from the office of the plastic surgeon. "Ah, must be some pre-appointment stuff," I say wisely to myself, and answer.
It's an assistant of some sort, who tells me that this office does not operate on people over a certain BMI. "But call us back when you've--"
Fortunately for all of us, they were able to halt their mouth's autopilot about there. (I've done phone work. I recognize the symptoms.)
"I know you don't make the policies," I said, and hung up before I could say anything else.
First I plugged numbers into a little calculator that was not designed to reverse the formula, but kept at it until I arrived at the magic number that I would have to beat. Then I did a little math. Based on that, they would want me to lose, hmm, yes. And about that goal weight-- oh. Oh. I emailed my own doctor with a short summary of the details ("After I am done having an absolute breakdown I will check into my other options").
I was crying by the time I called the chemo nurse line. The goal weight was one bad chemo session away from my high school anorexic low. The amount to be lost was not one but two tennis ball sized tumors away. I told the nurse's assistant who answered about the recent history I was working with here, and then fiercely said that I wanted the most radical mastectomy they had. Five minutes before, I'd been fine with the idea of a modest reduction but now I was thinking about paper guillotines.
She said she'd check with the doctors and see where they could refer me, and would try to get back in about 24 hours. Good.
Substantially calmer, and getting angrier, I emailed my gender care doctor, to convey this surgeon's specific threshold of underqualification, the magnitude of difference, and requested a new referral. I told house chat, and called Nora.
Nora provided Ianthe memes and brainstormed ideas for prosthetics. I could try for ones that fit my current bras (would still be smaller than my actual bazoingas) and see if we could fit in some zippered storage space.
Alex had a prescription to pick up and so did I. I decided to go in to talk to the staff about the situation.
At which point I learned: not only is my insurance company dicking me around about the muscle relaxer, but I have another prescription on hold because it's dicking me around about my CANCER. PATIENT. PAIN. MEDICATION. (In addition to the FUCKING PET SCAN, which it had an ENDOCRINOLOGIST deny, because I "wasn't" getting "traditional" treatment for my cancer. Yes, my oncologists Happened to them.)
Yes, I McFucking lost it. Which looked a lot like me calling the insurance company most of the names in the book, and the pharmacy tech nodding along with enthusiasm. "So, do you want the [small number] or should I tell your doctor ...?"
"I'm going to go full turbo-Karen here, please," I said, and then she complimented my dress and I complimented her pins and I wandered off to look at the summer selection of plastic dishes while she stuffed pills in bottles for me.
When I got home:
Hello,
Dr. [name] has moved out of state and is no longer seeing patients in clinic. You can schedule with another provider in our office or contact your primary care physician for alternate referrals.
Best,
[]
[] Women's Center
There is one (1) adult gender care provider in the state. This one is 30 miles away, specialty Urogynecology.
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[further commentary redacted because of spluttering incoherent rage]
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I can recommend my spouse's plastic surgeon, who does mastectomies both for trans and oncological reasons, without hesitation, but she's in NYC and that probably won't be useful to you.
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I know one of the things to look for in an anaesthesiologist, to the point where I greet them by asking if they want to look down my throat.
I hate BMI bigots!
But first, I get to see my spouse through their cancer "journey" with uterine cancer.
BTW, I love your list of euphemisms.
Re: I hate BMI bigots!
I have a few travel notes from that same cancer "journey", mostly that if someone tries to tell you that even though your tumor responded to estrogen that it's safe to take estrogen supplements, eject the doctor and get a second opinion and don't fill the prescription
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Unfuck the fucking fuckers, they're fucked-up, fucking BMI is fucked-up, the fucking whole fucking USian fucking health 'care' system is fucking fucked-up.
Much sympathy, and hugs if wanted.
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I maaaaaaaaaaay have tanked their location's ratings, using the straight up facts (they did, in fact, string me along for months where I could have been looking for other options!) so they can't refute the review without lying or looking like assholes, and I'M a level Greenish Plaid local guide so my word carries a lot of clout in a way theirs doesn't.
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SO MUCH FUCKERY.
*hugs and sympathy and RAGE*
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I send so much empathy (5 years of waiting for a hip replacement still ongoing) and sympathy.
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I'm so sorry. That's completely absurd.
Best luck getting it untangled, and also going full turbo-Karen on the insurance.
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So much rage.
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would you be willing to name your insurer or system? because wow it would be good to avoid.
(not that it always works - I have a host of reasons to hate and distrust Swedish/Providence but now that Kaiser contracts with them for emergency room I can't completely avoid them with my current insurance options)
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I really hope the other doctor is worth working with =_=
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Second, think of the tits off storage? I mean where else do you put a phone?
I am boggles that there is only one specialist in state. A least the double cancer backhurt should get them off, gender irrelevant t.
And I-barely- made their number as a heavy exercising and dieting 16 year old who was nothing but legs and tits. I question how many people actually hot that number because the relation to tit cause back problems.....
You deserve better.
Than this or Ianthe
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I am so homicidal on your behalf now, I can't even.
I have three "fuck you icons"
...and I resisted posting thrice but damn that is SO FUCKING WRONG!
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I am sorry.
I can't type anything coherent at the moment, so here's this:
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Still no word on the cancer pain meds.
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General anger and flailing in solidarity.
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... fffffff
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