Given that I don't have kids, the title of this post may seem a bit odd. What do I know about planning for parenthood, right? I don't have much room to talk, right? Sure, I might not be one of the lucky ones who enjoys the joys of little bundles of joy, but I'm going to ask you to cut me a little slack before you judge. After all, at the age of nineteen, when I first moved away from home to prepare for a career in Radiography, I did not know I would be childless many moons later.
The Radiography program was quite demanding--even more so than graduate school, I'd say. I remember our instructors advising us that if we have to work, then limit our work hours to no more than twenty per week, with strong recommendation to make sure it was much less than that. Our clinical rotations alone required us to be at the hospital twenty hours a week. Add on to that classroom time and an infinity of studying, and there wasn't much time for work anyway. But reality sometimes takes precedent over the well-meaning advice of those who know better. And my reality at the time was that I had to eat and pay bills.
So I worked.
Two jobs, as a matter of fact. My first job was as a storeroom clerk at the same hospital where I did my clinical rotations. I mainly worked weekends and holidays and ad hoc hours during the week. One of my assignments was stocking the OB shelves. During my clinical rotations, I saw quite a few sick folks, broken bones and dead people. Spending a little time on the other end of the life spectrum--catching a glimpse of newborns and the joy of life--was a welcome reprieve from the gloom of the infirm, injured and ailing.
It soon became apparent that to maintain financial solvency, I'd have to boost my income. Since my gig at the hospital was part time and there were not enough hours to give me, I took a job working the collating machine with the media department at school. It was kind of convenient going straight from class to work without having to drive anywhere. I'd go learn, then put in my hours doing mindless, but needful work, and then I'd go home. Pretty simple.
While these two jobs helped me pay my bills, neither provided medical benefits, nor the financial security to afford visits to "real" doctors. I was only a year out of high school and still pretty athletic, so I wasn't too concerned about serious illness. However, as a young woman of reproductive age, I knew I needed to get a check up every now and then. A kind nurse at the county public health clinic informed me of where women like me could get the healthcare needed at such a crucial time in the family planning window of opportunity. Again, I wasn't planning a family, but rather, just wanted to maintain my health to ready myself for what would some day be family planning. You see, I had already met the guy I was going to marry--and yes, he knew it. Since I was in a monogamous, loving relationship, I didn't consider myself an s-word, ala Rush Limbaugh's term for Sandra Fluke. Heck, my Dad even would ask "When are you two finally going to get married?" I think he was just looking for an excuse to go dancing, but still.
I went for my first check up at the free women's health clinic and sat there among other low-income women and pretty much felt like I was being judged. I don't know what it was about taking care of my health that made me feel dirty. I'm not the best patient and hate needles, sure, but keeping on top of my health? Isn't that a good thing? Doesn't that count as being responsible? I guess this is what happens when taking care of your health includes making sure your female parts are free from diseases like cancer. The first picture that the self-appointed judges amongst us conjure up is one of wanton, free-spirited women dancing around naked like the desirous little Jezebels we are. But I was in a loving, monogamous relationship with the man I would later marry, so my attitude was F the judges.
And I am so glad I took that attitude, too, since the results of my first check up came back with the directive, "You need to come back." They had found a moderate case of cervical dysplasia, which is another way of saying, "This isn't cancer right now, but if you don't take care of it, it will very well become cancer." Embedded in my tiny, abnormal, messed up cells were a few strains of Human Papilloma Virus, with two of the culprits showing a high association with cervical cancer. So, the doctors froze the little buggers off and monitored the area frequently over the next year. When it became apparent that the neighborhood on my cervix was once again taken over by the Honey Badgers of abnormal cervical cells, I had another surgery to clean out the riff raff.
This meant more monitoring. More life saving treatment that I could not afford, but thankfully, did not have to pay for. I had to receive more healthcare from a free women's health clinic. I had to take advantage of the 97% of the services that places like Planned Parenthood actually perform. I did not go there seeking the 3% of services that--by law that is already on the books--cannot be and are not funded by tax dollars. I became one of the 5 million patients that these places keep healthy each year. And that is how I saw myself--a patient, with a potentially life-threatening disease that was nipped in the bud by doctors and nurses kind enough to provide almost 800,000 Pap exams a year. I received two of the nearly 42,000 colposcopies and 1200 or so cryosurgeries performed each year. And since that was the first time I had learned about HPV to any appreciable depth, I was counted among the millions of individuals--men and women alike--who are educated about their health at such clinics.
I went to this clinic to obtain healthcare. I did not want an abortion. I wasn't even pregnant. I just wanted to be clean and healthy. I just wanted to live.
Is that too much to ask?
The Radiography program was quite demanding--even more so than graduate school, I'd say. I remember our instructors advising us that if we have to work, then limit our work hours to no more than twenty per week, with strong recommendation to make sure it was much less than that. Our clinical rotations alone required us to be at the hospital twenty hours a week. Add on to that classroom time and an infinity of studying, and there wasn't much time for work anyway. But reality sometimes takes precedent over the well-meaning advice of those who know better. And my reality at the time was that I had to eat and pay bills.
So I worked.
Two jobs, as a matter of fact. My first job was as a storeroom clerk at the same hospital where I did my clinical rotations. I mainly worked weekends and holidays and ad hoc hours during the week. One of my assignments was stocking the OB shelves. During my clinical rotations, I saw quite a few sick folks, broken bones and dead people. Spending a little time on the other end of the life spectrum--catching a glimpse of newborns and the joy of life--was a welcome reprieve from the gloom of the infirm, injured and ailing.
It soon became apparent that to maintain financial solvency, I'd have to boost my income. Since my gig at the hospital was part time and there were not enough hours to give me, I took a job working the collating machine with the media department at school. It was kind of convenient going straight from class to work without having to drive anywhere. I'd go learn, then put in my hours doing mindless, but needful work, and then I'd go home. Pretty simple.
While these two jobs helped me pay my bills, neither provided medical benefits, nor the financial security to afford visits to "real" doctors. I was only a year out of high school and still pretty athletic, so I wasn't too concerned about serious illness. However, as a young woman of reproductive age, I knew I needed to get a check up every now and then. A kind nurse at the county public health clinic informed me of where women like me could get the healthcare needed at such a crucial time in the family planning window of opportunity. Again, I wasn't planning a family, but rather, just wanted to maintain my health to ready myself for what would some day be family planning. You see, I had already met the guy I was going to marry--and yes, he knew it. Since I was in a monogamous, loving relationship, I didn't consider myself an s-word, ala Rush Limbaugh's term for Sandra Fluke. Heck, my Dad even would ask "When are you two finally going to get married?" I think he was just looking for an excuse to go dancing, but still.
I went for my first check up at the free women's health clinic and sat there among other low-income women and pretty much felt like I was being judged. I don't know what it was about taking care of my health that made me feel dirty. I'm not the best patient and hate needles, sure, but keeping on top of my health? Isn't that a good thing? Doesn't that count as being responsible? I guess this is what happens when taking care of your health includes making sure your female parts are free from diseases like cancer. The first picture that the self-appointed judges amongst us conjure up is one of wanton, free-spirited women dancing around naked like the desirous little Jezebels we are. But I was in a loving, monogamous relationship with the man I would later marry, so my attitude was F the judges.
And I am so glad I took that attitude, too, since the results of my first check up came back with the directive, "You need to come back." They had found a moderate case of cervical dysplasia, which is another way of saying, "This isn't cancer right now, but if you don't take care of it, it will very well become cancer." Embedded in my tiny, abnormal, messed up cells were a few strains of Human Papilloma Virus, with two of the culprits showing a high association with cervical cancer. So, the doctors froze the little buggers off and monitored the area frequently over the next year. When it became apparent that the neighborhood on my cervix was once again taken over by the Honey Badgers of abnormal cervical cells, I had another surgery to clean out the riff raff.
This meant more monitoring. More life saving treatment that I could not afford, but thankfully, did not have to pay for. I had to receive more healthcare from a free women's health clinic. I had to take advantage of the 97% of the services that places like Planned Parenthood actually perform. I did not go there seeking the 3% of services that--by law that is already on the books--cannot be and are not funded by tax dollars. I became one of the 5 million patients that these places keep healthy each year. And that is how I saw myself--a patient, with a potentially life-threatening disease that was nipped in the bud by doctors and nurses kind enough to provide almost 800,000 Pap exams a year. I received two of the nearly 42,000 colposcopies and 1200 or so cryosurgeries performed each year. And since that was the first time I had learned about HPV to any appreciable depth, I was counted among the millions of individuals--men and women alike--who are educated about their health at such clinics.
I went to this clinic to obtain healthcare. I did not want an abortion. I wasn't even pregnant. I just wanted to be clean and healthy. I just wanted to live.
Is that too much to ask?