Just another hysterical woman
Measuring my life in tissues
The minute I walked into the airport bathroom I could feel the insides of my nose begin to swell shut. By the time I reached the stall, I had a plague-appropriate cough. Then the sneezes joined the ensemble. I sat in the stall for a minute and let the sneeze-cough (cough-sneeze?) cacophony stabilize.
This isn’t necessarily a new experience for me, but my experience of it is new.
Five years ago I went to an allergist for an unexplained rash. Rashes are something I know a lot about because I’ve had extremely sensitive skin since childhood. Those quintessential 90s polyester socks with ruffles created deep cracks under my toes that required a thick layer of A&D ointment to heal. Leaning against the hot plastic of the car interior on road trips made my arms break out. Eczema has spotted my hands, elbows, knees, and toes for most of my life. The rash I went to the allergist was new. Unlike my myriad sensitive skin maladies, this rash appeared only after meals. I eliminated this, that, and the other from my diet for a few weeks to see if I could suss it out for myself, but to no avail. Off to the allergist I went, choosing one that was the closest to my house, but still a 20-minute drive away.
The visit was routine until the allergist came into the room. He was a white man well over sixty, who glanced at my intake chart before launching into a conversation that went something like this:
”Tell me about this rash.”
”It seems to happen after I eat. My nose starts to itch uncontrollably and then my face breaks out in a rash.”
“Is it a rash or is it hives?”
“I don’t know.”
”Because if it’s a rash, you should go to a dermatologist. Have you been to a dermatologist?”
”No, it’s behaving more like an allergic reaction.”
“Do you have any pictures?”
“No, I didn’t think to take pictures at the time.”
”What were you eating?”
”Well, it varies but the last time it was Mexican food.”
”What was in it?”
“I don’t really know.”
”Any particular spices?”
”I didn’t make it so I don’t really know.”
”Cumin? Paprika?”
”Possibly. Since I don’t know, can I just get a full-panel test?”
”No, I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ll have the nurse test you for paprika.”
“I really would just like a full-panel test.”
”Let’s test for this first.”
Unshockingly, I was not allergic to paprika. He recommended that I take a daily Zyrtec before telling me that it was nothing to worry about and sent me on my way.
The whole way home I replayed the exchange. I knew he didn’t believe me. I couldn’t believe he didn’t listen to me. I knew he saw me as a hysterical female archetype who was overreacting to some minor inconvenience. I kicked myself for not having a photo, but how was I supposed to know I would need forensic evidence? I wondered if I should have pushed harder, advocated more, but how much more specific can you get than, “I want a full-panel allergy test”?
The next five years were spent in a haze of tissues and Zyrtec. Should I have seen another doctor? Absolutely, and I would have had Covid not very soon thereafter shut down the world and rearranged my priorities. I did stop seeing male doctors.
Seven months ago, I woke up with a rash that ran from my forehead to my clavicle. Determined to be believed this time, I went into crime-scene mode: I took a picture of my rash. I made a list of the things I’d eaten or interacted with that day. I wrote down dates, times, and symptoms. Armed with my evidence, I made an appointment to see another allergist.
Somehow, there is only one main allergy clinic in the city of Atlanta (population 514,465) and the doctor I saw before is still at that clinic. I knew I didn’t want to see him, or the other male doctor (fool me once), so I booked an appointment with a female doctor at the next closest clinic–a 45-minute drive away.
To say that my experience was completely different is trite but true. The doctor came into the room, asked me a few questions about my medical history, and then asked why I came in that day.
I laid out my evidence (Receipts! Timeline! Screenshots!), ending with the rash that brought me in. The conversation went something like this:
“I have a picture, if that’s helpful.”
”Oh, that’s hives.”
”That’s hives?”
“Yes. You’re clearly allergic to something in your environment. Are you allergic to fragrance?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never considered it.”
“When was the last time you took an allergy pill?”
”A few days ago because I knew I was coming here.”
”The response may not be as strong because you still have some antihistamines in your system, but I’m going to go ahead and give you a full-panel test.”
I was shocked. “That would be great.”
“The nurse will be right back with the serums.”
The nurse made a dozen little pricks on my back and said she’d be back to check on me in ten minutes.
Unsurprisingly, I was allergic to everything that wasn’t paprika. Within five minutes, my back was so hot and itchy that I could barely lay still on the cold, crinkly exam table. The doctor came in after ten minutes and said, “Oh my, some big, big reactions. Get dressed and we’ll talk about it.”
Slathered in prescription-grade hydrocortisone cream, shirt sticking to my burning back, I sat there and watched the doctor circle nearly everything she had tested me for: oak, birch, pollen, several different kinds of grass, and dust mites. She explained that birch pollen is related to apple and pear, to which I said I had stopped eating raw apples because they made my mouth break out. She said I was so allergic to dust mites that she was going to prescribe an epipen and prednisone, just in case, and then asked if I had carpet in my house. I said, no, but that I was staying at a place with carpet when I got the rash. “That’s probably what triggered the hives. Dust mites love carpet.” She recommended I get allergy shots to generally help with, well, everything.
A few weeks ago, my husband said, “you’re not sneezing as much as you usually do.” “I’m not?”, I said. “Nope, and you’re not going through your typical box of tissues a day. You were like one of those church ladies who always has a tissue stuffed somewhere.” He wasn’t wrong about that. Or about the sneezing. It had been five months since I began the allergy shots. For the first month, I drove 80 minutes round-trip, three times a week to get my shots. It tapered off over time to twice a week, once a week, and now once a month. The process has been massively beneficial for me, but it’s also a massive time commitment. I think, from time to time, about how much time and pain that man’s unwillingness to listen has cost me.
I experience the world differently now. When in that airport bathroom, instead of being caught off guard by my sneezing and coughing, I quickly realized that I was probably allergic to the industrial-grade fragrance in the industrial-grade cleaner and got out of there as quickly as possible. All my symptoms stopped shortly after getting into the concourse. I’ve stopped eating spicy foods because I’ve determined I’m allergic to capsaicin. Now that my body isn’t in allergy-fighting hyper-drive anymore, it’s so much easier to identify triggers. I sleep better. I’m sick less often.
So what’s the takeaway? I’m not sure, honestly. I tell myself that I need to listen to myself more and trust myself more, that I know what’s best for me. The truth is, I did know what was best for me. I did advocate for myself and I still wasn’t believed. How did I know that I would need photographic evidence to prove that I was some crazy woman who was merely wasting that doctor’s valuable time?
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the failures of girl-power feminism. Barbie didn’t save us from the overturn of Roe and the rampant legislating of women’s bodies. The rise of Taylor Swift hasn’t corresponded with a decline in Black maternal mortality or assaults on trans people. All the “Girl Boss” mugs at TJ Maxx and magazines highlighting inclusive workplaces seem to have lulled us into believing that we’ve won the fight, when in reality it’s trending the opposite direction.
All that to say, I’m just thankful that I found a doctor who would listen to me. Listening, it seems, is the key. People know what they need, who are we to say we know them better than they know themselves? Now that my head isn’t full of snot, I plan on doing a lot more listening myself.
I've visited an ATL pediatric allergist (seriously disliked him) and another allergist run by twin male doctors who were all right, but dang, I think not seeing male doctors is a good policy to adopt. My male OB who was advertised as very pro-natural birth still didn't know how to support physiological birth (granted, few OBs even know about physiological birth, let alone have ever seen one).
I think another layer of the problem you've described is the stark/rigid professionalism in medicine. Both the doctors and lay people have been trained to believe that the doctors know what they are doing. "Just leave this to the professionals and move along." Questioning and pushing back are seen as problems. People are seen as patients. The power dynamic is intense. When one of our children was born medically complex, we were thrown into the deep end with not just educating ourselves on all kinds of medical terminology, perspectives, and alternatives, but also educating ourselves on advocating. One time, we were at the hospital with our daughter preparing her for surgery, when a small complication came up. I felt the sense of urgency to decide what to do quickly so that the team could continue their work. My husband reminded me that they are legally required to give us the time we need to think things over. I had no room in my mental model of Hospital for that.
Pair that with the isolation of being a new patient for a new problem, plus the long-lasting bias against hypochondriac women and the Savior complex doctors are encouraged toward and... well, here we are.
I think you would appreciate the short feminist pamphlet called Complaints and Disorders: the Sexual Politics of Sickness. It's free as an ebook on hoopla with an Atlanta Library card! Let me know what you think if you check it out!