A Pleasant Medical Experience
Medical Gaslighting at its best
“Would you like to insert the probe, or are you okay with me doing it?” The nice ultrasound technician is asking me, but it doesn’t matter. Being in this hospital, with my pants off, jelly all over my stomach, in a room with the lights off, I am not here or there.
I am six years old. I am seven years old. I live with my mother's boyfriend/psychic healer in San Francisco, with cold city streets and huge hills—unlimited ice cream and watching Nick at Night all night long. No grooming going on here. Your body, the body, is not yours. But it is your fault if it is not running right. Crystals can heal it, heal you, but you have to believe.
And then I am sort of an adult again, sort of aware of where I am, and the nice ultrasound lady is waiting for my response, and her wide-eyed student says, “Mam, are you okay?”
“I am fine. Sorry. Um, you can insert it. Um…Thanks for asking.”
And the probe goes in, and I try to center myself, to be an adult. I am safe. I am in control. I am choosing to have this ultrasound. There is an oddly placed poster of a happy-looking cow on the ceiling. It was painful to have to pre-pay 587 dollars because my insurance sucks and healthcare is broken. But I am safe.
