The most insulting experience at the hands of a doctor was a simple thing he thought was funny.
I’d been lying on my back on an exam table for awhile, eight months pregnant, naked under a paper blanket, slightly cold, getting bored, trying to remember all the questions I wanted to ask, when he entered and immediately grabbed the corner of the blanket and quickly pulled the whole thing off of me. I hadn’t even seen his face yet.
I jumped, of course, and reflexively gestured as if to cover myself with my hands and, I’m sure, displayed a face he found humorous, because he smiled as if delighted by his prank.
He handed the blanket back with professional remoteness, and I’d re-covered myself by the time the nurse arrived a few seconds later.
Doctors have always treated me worse than any other professional I know. Of course, as a mind control subject, almost certainly overseen by some local psychiatrist, I assume I might be known to many of the doctors. And some of them apparently love to torment a victim.
When I was born, a former boyfriend believes, a doctor snipped off my clitoris. It was commonly done back in the forties and fifties, from what I’ve read. My old boyfriend said my shape is unnatural, but exactly what you’d imagine a trim job would look like.
Worse surgery experiments were commissioned those decades by the US Government, for instance, cutting off the penis of baby boys and telling the parents there was an accident in the surgery room, and they were forced to do it, but they will give the family a bunch of money, do free corrective surgery as they can, and provide therapy for the course of the child’s life – and encourage the parents to raise the boy as a girl. Research.
So snipping long clitorises seems like nothing different than taking off the dew claws of puppies, ears and tails of certain breeds, and foreskins of baby boys. They had such a penchant for uniformity then, as well as the psychological repression of women’s energy.
I was given into a mind control program as a child. My parents were living in student housing on the campus of UC Davis, where the CIA was doing mind control experiments under the euphemism Human Ecology. I believe my parents were invited to participate in a special program, and probably earned a little money as test subjects.
And eventually, I believe, I was given into it too, as we soon moved into a beautiful new home which backed up to the second home of the Secretary of the Interior, Stuart Udall, whose cousin, Addison Udall, was my pediatrician. I don’t remember anything about him, except that he and Stuart both came to our family’s Christmas party at the end of my two years of amnesia.
Tortuous Orthodontia – for Life
At thirteen, I got braces on my teeth, which I was happy about, as I assessed my teeth as looking “like a jack-o-lantern.” After examining my teeth for the first time, the orthodontist had me stand beside the chair, then he got beside me and immobilized me in a head-lock with his left arm, with my jaw held firmly by his right hand. I set my teeth together while he forced my jaw back toward my neck.
“Open your jaw slowly,” he commanded kindly, and I obeyed – as he pushed my jaw back. “Close…,” he drew the word out slowly, while watching my face in the mirror. “And o-pen….”
A couple of times I opened my jaw in this awkward manner, not liking it, then he released my head and had me return to the chair.
“I’m going to straighten your teeth and fill in those gaps, but – you have too masculine a jaw, so I’ll also adjust your bite to pull it back.”
“But that didn’t feel good,” I told him.
“Your jaw will adjust over the course of the year, and you’ll never notice.”
He was the doctor, so I didn’t object.
In my late twenties, my jaw locked up for the first time, and I couldn’t open it or use my molars to chew for a couple of weeks. By the time my jaw unlocked, my front teeth had moved so much, they stopped me – still – from biting down fully on my molars, so I needed my front teeth shaved down inside and out where they crossed. I went to my original orthodontist who was still operating, jovial as ever, making no comment on the fact that my jaw was failing.
Off and on over the decades, my jaw has sometimes popped a lot, sometimes loudly – but now it locks again, and hurts when it unlocks. The trouble is, the comfortable place for my jaw to relax is not in line for chewing or swallowing – even spit. For some reason I have to move my tongue in an awkward way between my upper and lower teeth. Or, I can contract my jaw into this unnatural constriction, swallow, and then relax it again. It’s awkward, and it sometimes makes me irritable – at the arrogance of doctors.
I wonder what sort of deterioration is going on there, as it’s becoming painful more and more often. Sometimes it totally pisses me off, and I think I want my teeth all removed, or new braces to move them back into a more natural location – but both those ideas horrify me as much as living with this. (I’ve already put this on my list of reasons it might a good day to die.)
Then I relax and accept that my body is falling apart. I’ll be 63 soon. And sometimes bodies fall apart in painful ways. And I got this.
But sometimes I go on: A doctor did it. For his vanity. And I can’t sue him.
It only has to do with eating and speaking…. Pisses me off! Doctors!!!
When I had my appendix out, supposedly they weren’t sure that’s what the problem was, so they opened me up for exploratory surgery, and cut me from right of my navel and a little below, straight down the length of my belly. Afterward, my doctor clamped me closed with a few staples, maybe eight, so my skin warbled between the tightness of staples and a wider, relaxed connection.
As I prepared to leave the hospital my final day, I asked the doctor how soon I would be able to take the stairs in our home.
He tossed down whatever was in his hand and looked at me with withering disdain and said, “Women are always using any excuse to not do what they’re supposed to do.”
I recovered from my shock quickly, and acted as though I hadn’t heard him say such an insulting thing.
But the idea didn’t go away. I felt as though I had to prove I wasn’t a malingerer. And I did. (That’s what a mind controlled, self-denying, pathetic thing I was.) I cooked dinner while my husband and my visiting brother watched television, and even put it all on a tray to carry out to them!
Back the next week, as ordered, the doctor took out my stitches even though I wasn’t fully healed. When part of the incision opened, he closed it with a band-aid and told me to be careful. The scar is pretty ugly today.
(And so’s the horizontal one I got a few years later.)
Childbirth was the worst.
They almost killed me, and admitted it. (“We thought you both were goners.”) And everyone thought I’d never function normally in certain places again. And my son came out in a coma. I’ll save all that for another blog.