Touching the Tangential
My husband is a good man with a great mind that he is constantly exercising. His daily workouts include writing, something each and every one of us should be doing. Did you know that writing things with a pen or pencil uses a different part of the brain than typing? According to at least one study, areas of the brain associated with comprehension and recall are more engaged when pen and paper are used to take notes than when an electronic device is used. I wonder, though, if using a stylus to write on a tablet might be comparable to a certain extent. No, probably not. An electronic screen will always provide a different tactile experience than paper. And that reminds me: don’t you think it’s funny that schools now hand out iPads to students (often beginning in kindergarten) like they used to hand out textbooks and pencils? Think about the Metaverse, virtual reality, online everything: what or who are we touching—or more to the point, not touching?
Yesterday, I started reading a second book by Ashley Montagu: Touching: The Human Significance of the Skin, and I’ve already learned that the sense of touch is the first to come into being. Even before a human embryo has formed her eyes and ears, she responds to touch. Now, I don’t want to know the details of experiments conducted on pre-born babies, as I am sure it would break my heart, so we’ll just leave that there.
Wait. Let’s not. Let’s think for a moment about the nature of science, which comes down to dissection and labeling: two of the most effective methods of objectifying and depersonalizing, something we humans do to control what we don’t understand—because what we don’t understand, we fear. According to the surgeon who used to live down the street, the first thing taught in medical school is distrust of alternative practices. He told me this, nearly two decades ago, when I was naïvely sharing what I had learned about energy medicine from the Doctor of Oriental Medicine I used to see on a regular basis when my family and I still lived in the Denver area. I didn’t know it at the time, but this surgeon fellow gave me a useful piece of information, and it has been an important factor in the books I’ve chosen to read and in the healthcare decisions I’ve made since then.
Not that it means much to anyone else, apparently. How many times have people I’ve tried to help by offering a different perspective on their health complaints (that they share with me, remember) responded with some form of “Why should I listen to you; you’re not a doctor?” I find it funny and sad that their skepticism extends to me because I don’t possess a piece of paper, but it’s completely absent when dealing with someone in a white coat. I’d ask why medical and scientific professionals are implicitly trusted, but I already know the answer: because we, as a population, have been trained to believe it. Trained by who? Everyone who benefits from the money invested by physicians’ associations, pharmaceutical companies, medical equipment manufacturers, medical lobbyists, “philanthropists” (aka elitist social engineers), and government agencies. Never forget that no one can patent herbs or practices that help the body heal itself.
What else are doctors and other healthcare workers taught? To compartmentalize, to tamp down their emotions when dealing with patients, to be professional. But, wait. A patient is a human being: body, soul, intellect, emotions, the food they eat, the media they consume, the beliefs and opinions they hold.
Okay, I’m way out on a tangent, not even close to where I was going when I started, but, what the hell? In for a penny; in for a pound. I’ll follow my original train of thought later, maybe tomorrow.
In chapter 36 of What My Bones Know, Stephanie Foo recounts her experience with endometriosis, a far too common complaint among women in which the lining of the uterus grows outside that organ, causing pain and other symptoms that might range from annoying to excruciating. Stephanie first experiences the stabbing pain in her womb in January of 2019, shortly after the marriage proposal she received and accepted at Christmas. It has been about a year since getting her diagnosis of complex PTSD, and she is thriving thanks to all the work she put into healing, and thanks to years’ worth of unconditional love received from her fiancé and his family. Now this. A gynecologist goes through the protocols she’s been trained to perform and tells Stephanie she has endometriosis and explains what it is. Here’s how that visit went:
The first thing I thought, and subsequently blurted out, was, “I have complex PTSD. Did that cause this?”
“Endometriosis affects about one in ten women. It’s really common, nothing odd there. And tell your psychiatrist about your mental health stuff. Don’t tell me.”
I flinched at her directness, even though I’ve been told some version of that sentence before: “Tell your psychiatrist. Your brain has nothing to do with your physical health.” Even though I knew that was completely wrong, I felt self-conscious about using my precious few minutes with the doctor to give her a lecture on how trauma affects brain/body systems.
The doctor then tells Stephanie that she’ll prescribe the birth control pill to halt her periods, but Stephanie explains that she’s had bad allergic reactions to every pill she’s tried, so the doctor suggests an insertable hormonal contraceptive and tells Stephanie that her copper IUD is not a concern in the progression of her symptoms because it’s non-hormonal. Stephanie’s not crazy about the insert because ones she tried previously made her suicidal. The doctor’s response? No problem; I’ll also prescribe an antidepressant. Stephanie agrees, and the results are so bad, she stops taking the prescriptions and finds a doctor specializing in pelvic pain disorders.
Her intake forms took longer than other doctors’ because there was an entire section for trauma and whether I was abused. When she sat me down for consultation, one of her first questions was “What was the nature of the abuse?”
When I looked startled, she said, “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
But I just grinned. “No, no, no! I want to! I’m happy to! I’m just surprised!”
Dr. Emily Blanton wasn’t rushed. She took her time with me—a full hour of careful, deliberate examination and explanation. As she snapped off her gloves, she said, “My theory is that you’ve spent the last two decades with chronic inflammation as a result of endometriosis. You probably have muscle damage in your pelvic area from it being stressed and inflamed for years, and you’re just finally seeing the consequences now. It’s like you’ve been walking around with a charley horse, constantly, for years.”
Dr. Blanton allowed me to continue on the NuvaRing [hormonal insert] for a couple more months, but after my next checkup, when I came back depressed and in pain, she didn’t hesitate a moment. She didn’t deny my pain. She didn’t make me feel as if I should be responding to treatment better or as if any of this was my fault. “Well, you’re not going to continue on this treatment plan anymore,” she declared brightly. “You’re not going to take something that makes you feel bad. Emotional pain is just as bad as physical pain, and we’re here to make you feel better.”
She took me off the NuvaRing and started me on pelvic floor physical therapy—fifteen minutes of stretches a day.
Within a month, I was feeling better. Shortly thereafter, she took out my copper IUD. That reduced my symptoms to the point where my pain was totally manageable. And—for the first in the ten years I’d had my IUD—my premenstrual dysphoric disorder symptoms alleviated significantly.
I’m sure that Stephanie’s story is not uncommon, but it’s not just about finding the right physician. It’s about being heard, and until you understand how absolutely essential that is to a human’s well-being, you’ll never be the person someone else truly needs.
