I had my final post-op follow up yesterday. In the course of that ten minutes, I found out that that last real bad stint of pain I had, pre-cyst-removal, was the pain of my fallopian tube being twisted over due to the weight of the cyst. The pain was my body trying to tell me something was very wrong. It twisted three times, and the pain was due to loss of blood flow to the ovary. That was the moment I should have gone back to the hospital. They would have taken another x-ray, perhaps another CT, gone right in and removed the cyst, and saved my ovary.
Instead, I took Percocet and stayed in bed for a week, the ovary went necrotic and died from the neglect.
I have no health insurance. I can’t afford health insurance, not even the insurance they offer through my job, which is mediochre coverage at best, anyway. It’s all we can do just to keep Ru and Rocky insured, through Ru’s job at the hospital. We were already facing an $8,000 bill from my first cyst-related hospitalization, since the organization that was supposed to be helping me get emergency Medicaid spin-down lost my application, and nobody ever fucking bothered to tell me (I had been calling for three months to get a status report, and never got called back).
Plus, of course, I can’t be covered under my partner’s insurance, because even though we’ve been together for over ten years, have stuck together through incredibly trying times, are raising a child together, and frankly are more committed than most straight couples I know, we can’t have the rights afforded straight marriages because then the fundamentalists’ children would start fucking goats.
I knew on a deep level, that day, that something was very wrong, during that second wave of pain. But going back to the emergency room just didn’t seem like an option, so I took some Percocet, went to bed, and waited it out. Sure enough, the pain went away. The pain went away because my ovary died inside me, and dead things don’t hurt.
And now, because I’m just a queer, and because somewhere in my mind I was making a choice between caring for my body and keeping my child fed, I am missing an internal organ. I feel sick.