Unknown

My sex at birth is unknown. That’s what it says on my latest blood results. I’m also non-Hispanic. Just a few years ago the case was made for accuracy in sex, age, race, and weight in medical tests so a patient could be treated properly.

I recently saw a cousin whose parents and grandparents on both sides were Irish. She is around five feet tall and weighs about ninety pounds. So of course, her size needs to be considered in any health treatments.  But I wonder with all the advances in medical science if it’s important to know that she is at least third generation Irish. Do the Irish, or people from that area of Europe, have a propensity toward any health issues, whether good or bad, that should be considered?

I don’t know but non-Hispanic white seems a broad category. Also, “sex unknown” seems like they could’ve asked me. 

Actually, neither of these descriptions bother me since I’m not a fan of the medical industry in general. It’s changed quite a bit in my lifetime, certainly not all bad.  I go for an annual to make sure I don’t have anything serious.  But doctors often don’t know their patients. People move around a lot and doctors book every fifteen minutes, so their offices are revolving doors of a little chit-chat, computer keys clicking, and “go get these tests.”

They don’t treat your symptoms. They only treat (or not) based on test results. Some treatments are worse than the malady. Consequently, many people self-medicate. I think doctors often have their hands tied by insurance and government regulations, so I don’t think they’re to blame for their revolving door practices. However, it would be nice to see a good old-fashioned, practical doctor.

The cousin I mentioned had a check-up shortly before I saw her. Her doctor said she needed sodium and prescribed three pretzels a day. I’d go to that doctor if I lived near her. But I wasn’t planning on discussing the medical profession. I took a rather long detour. I really wanted to talk about sex unknown.

It brought my thoughts back to being pregnant with my older son. I had morning sickness twenty-four hours a day. I couldn’t stand up without being nauseous.  People said eat crackers. That didn’t work. “Eat them first thing in the morning,” someone said. And someone else said, “No, you have to eat them before you even get out of bed.” After trying every conceivable cracker cure without success, I stopped. I didn’t eat another cracker for at least twenty five years.

When I hit five and a half months, I woke up in the middle of the night and started talking to Rob, apparently incoherently. He looked frightened and said, “We’re going to the hospital right now!”  I didn’t know why. I felt fine but I agreed. I didn’t realize I was delirious. When we got to the car, the crisp early December air snapped me out of it. I still felt fine and not sure why we were going to the hospital.

At the emergency room, my temperature was 103. They admitted me. I was given a bed in the maternity ward and hooked up to an I.V. of some sort of anti-biotic. After a couple of days, I was good to go home.

A woman I’d not seen before came in to clean the room. She noticed me gathering my few things and knew I was leaving. “What did you have?” she asked cheerfully. “They didn’t know.” I answered. A look of shock and horror quickly replaced her cheerful expression and I realized what she was thinking. Sex unknown? Species unknown?  At five and a half months, I had the belly. I was in the maternity ward. These suggested a baby, not an illness. I burst out laughing.

She stared, still with that shock/horror look but with a glare that said, “You’re a monster!”

I managed through my laughter to let her know I didn’t have a baby. Still pregnant. She regained her composure, but the shock was too much for her. She fled the room on some fabricated pretense, no doubt to hunt down whoever was in charge of putting psychos in the maternity ward.