Not a Well Woman

School is done for the winter break and depression has descended like a fog. I've lost track of the last several days and have instead taken to marking time in stranger increments-- late night runs through the heavily decorated neighborhood (this town goes all out for the holidays), random phone calls from my mother, endless batches of cookies that I lose interest in as soon as they leave the oven.

And now a protracted battle with the military hospital, for which I have few kind words. "It's free." That's the end of my kind words. Today has been marred with a string of awkward phone calls, each beginning with the same tired recap of events and circumstances, like a bad sitcom picking up after the "to be continued" cliff hanger because there is no continuity or logic involved in military healthcare.

Imagine seeing a brand new doctor every time you get sick, and having to explain and justify every medical decision made prior to your meeting. I once had an argument with a doctor over why I had been prescribed anti-depressants TEN YEARS AGO, even though I was there for a heinous ear infection that felt like it was gnawing away at my brain. She finally let the issue go when I burst into tears and fell back on the paper-covered table in resignation.

There is also no privacy or delicacy. No matter what may or may not be going on with your VAGINA, you must first discuss it in detail with an 18-year-old enlisted guy from Kentucky. Then you may proceed to your brand new doctor, who will want to discuss something completely different, alter all existing prescriptions, and then dash off somewhere else.

Today it's birth control. Despite the recent hatemail from my uninhabited uterus, I would like at least a little control over my reproductive functions, and up until today this was no problem. But now I'm getting the runaround on why the prescription was never refilled, even though I requested it A WEEK AGO and am now in dire need. I actually got a call from some dude named Bill this morning (why they bother telling me their names is a mystery-- I NEVER deal with the same person twice) nervously asking me if I could maybe drive to CVS, pick up the original prescription and drive it all the way across town to him at the base because my doctor wants to see it before she'll refill it.

What the fuck? Are they still using mimeographs or something? Isn't this what computerized medical records are for?

At any rate, there was plenty of time to discuss this when I brought it up during my "Well Woman" exam, the one where she auctioneered me out of getting a pap smear and all but ran out of the room. It was like she and the other docs were having some kind of relay race and she had to pass the baton.

So Dr. Auctioneer has an appointment with me today at 2:00 and I am not a Well Woman. I am a weepy, angry woman who just wants her fucking birth control and her Prozac and maybe something warm to drink so she can disappear into a book for about a week.

**Update:
HA! Success! Not only am I back with many months' supply of baby repellant, I have gotten the Good Shit, the version I was on for years and years but which the military switched me off of when we came to this town, claiming that they didn't carry it. Apparently it's more expensive for them while being the same free for me, so they thought they'd try me out on something different for a while. La, la, la-- everybody wins!

But no.

For the past three months, my hormone levels skittered up and down, my normally placid (if vocal) uterus bucked and writhed in monthly pain, and the general level of Fucked-Upedness in my mind rose like an ugly watermark.

But today, Dr. Auctioneer, suddenly contrite with me sitting there scowling and shaking in her exam room, revealed a magical form she can fill out that unlocks a secret vault in the pharmacy, from which golden light and birth control pills spill forth.

I felt like kissing her fleeing feet...