Hysterical Read online

  I hope everyone who reads this will copy me.

  BUT FOR NOW SHUT UP BECAUSE THE BOOK IS ABOUT TO START.

  Footnotes

  1 The male Baptist pastor Gary Chapman wrote The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate, which became a best seller. Jeanna Kadlec, an ex-evangelical and author of Heretic: A Memoir, tweeted her read on the book, that the Languages, which include “words of affirmation,” “quality time,” “physical touch,” “acts of service,” and “receiving gifts,” “were specifically designed to reinforce patriarchal gender norms.”

  2 Peter Mark Roget, in 1805. For this book I looked up synonyms for “victim” on OneLook Thesaurus, and the second on the list is “woman.”

  3 Which is to say, most movies and shows fail the Bechdel Test—a test born from the comic Dykes to Watch Out For by Alison Bechdel—whose criteria are: a fictional work (1) featuring at least two women (2) who talk to each other (3) about literally anything besides a man.

  4 Perhaps because standard chilly office temperature is based on male bodies in male clothing, which the Atlantic reported is lowering women’s cognitive functioning.

  1

  MEDICAL HISTORY

  And the Oscar goes to… Casey Affleck, Manchester by the Sea!” announced Brie Larson at the Eighty-Ninth Academy Awards. I watched on my laptop in my one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment as Casey Affleck, with a low man-bun, walked onstage, and Larson, who’d won Best Actress the year prior for her role as a sexual assault survivor in Room, hugged him and handed him the trophy—and I couldn’t do that thing: see straight. My right eyeball ached as another accused harasser won an award for his art rather than be arrested or otherwise disciplined for his (twice) alleged crime (that was settled out of court for an undisclosed amount).1

  Days later, the ache spread to my left eye. More days later, I couldn’t read my street sign at the crosswalk.

  For what I’d guessed was eye strain from screen devotion, I booked an appointment with an ophthalmologist on the Upper West Side (not covered by insurance). Joan Didion’s books were on display at the check-in desk—this was, in fact, Joan Didion’s ophthalmologist (kismet, unintentional)—and the ophthalmologist’s administrative assistant handed me the first set of medical history forms I’d repeatedly fill out over the next two years.

  Seated in the waiting room that looked like an art gallery, I told the form a little about myself.

  Age/Sex/Location: Early mid-thirties/female/in my head

  Race: White/translucent

  Astrological chart: Virgo sun, Cancer moon, Scorpio rising

  Marital status: Single. Like single-single, like assembling-IKEA-furniture-single single

  Emergency contacts and safety nets: Well-to-do mommy and stepdad

  Occupation: Freelance writer and editor working mostly for free; gig artist (dog-sitter, nanny, transcriber, barista); “artist”; artist; “unemployed” (per my dad)

  Insurance: Medicaid, the law of attraction

  Privileged: Yes

  Medications: Yes

  Do you agree to not get sick unless you (or someone you know) can afford it?: Yes

  Do you agree to not make enough money in order to qualify for Medicaid and never make so much money that you won’t (1) be eligible for Medicaid OR (2) be able to afford insurance?: I do

  My eyes were dilated, tested, touched. Joan Didion’s ophthalmologist recommended artificial tears and fish oil supplements, and he rewrote my glasses prescription. The ordeal was over.

  One week later I picked up my glasses with the new lenses, tried them on, and waited for my eyes to adjust to Court Street in Brooklyn. They didn’t. The prescription was wrong, or the lenses were, or my eyes, I couldn’t tell, but at least I could begin panicking.

  Back in the ophthalmologist’s waiting room for repeat exams, I stared at framed landscape paintings I couldn’t see and burst into public tears. What if I never see another landscape? I had taken landscapes for granted. I pressed the image of the landscape into my memory, just in case.

  “The prescription’s correct,” the ophthalmologist assured me.

  I revisited the glasses boutique. “The lenses are accurate,” the optometrist assured me.

  So, I met with new ophthalmologists and new optometrists with new hands, and I got newer prescriptions that were old after a few days.

  Soon my eyesight didn’t matter because I had another complaint: a headache. Actually, sometimes it was a headache, but most times it was a poltergeist trying to pry my eyes from their sockets.

  I’d had headaches before, a few, and they were not like this one. This headache did not end.

  A neurologist tried to categorize it. First, it was a migraine, classed as a “primary headache,” the third most common and seventh most disabling medical disorder worldwide (forty-seven million Americans experience migraine, and 75 percent are women). But I didn’t have typical migraine symptoms of nausea or seeing auras, so the neurologist reclassified my headache as “cluster headaches,” also primary, also known as “suicide headaches,” so nicknamed because the pain is off the pain scale, because the pain won’t kill you but you wish it would. True to cluster headaches, my pain was one-sided and concentrated around my right eye but had spread and had a random beginning that suggested a random end. But my pain wasn’t “enough” pain, although it was all-consuming, to be a cluster headache.

  Other primary headache disorders the neurologist ruled out were “stabbing headache” (or “ice-pick headache”), “headache associated with sexual activity,” “new daily persistent headache (NDPH),” and more listed in the infinite International Classification of Headache Disorders. That my headache was unclassifiable was its only certain characteristic.

  To find the source of the pain, another neurologist tested my brain and my nerves and my gut (also called the “second brain”). I’d hoped for “brain tumor,” just to have a name, any name. “Brain tumor” implied that doctors would come and get my pain and also take me seriously. Because if a woman is in pain that has no name, then no, she isn’t.

  The CT and MRI scans didn’t show a tumor. To single out food allergies, the neurologist put me on an elimination diet, which has two parts, the elimination phase (stop eating everything you eat), and the reintroduction phase (start eating the food you eat again, one food at a time, to see which food, if any, causes symptoms). It takes five to six weeks that register as five to six years, and I found out I had no food allergies.

  Next the neurologist looked for nerve compression via a nerve conduction velocity test. A nurse stuck electrodes on me that would send mild electrical impulses to the nerves under my skin to stimulate them and isolate nerve damage. “We’ll start with a trial run. This won’t hurt,” the nurse had said, I think, though I’m not sure because she’d just electrocuted me. This was the first “wouldn’t hurt” of thousands to come. Wouldn’t hurt whom, and wouldn’t hurt how much? The actual evaluation would have stimulated/fried nerves across every part of my body, like G-d stabbing Her fingernail into tangles of fibers until they smoked.

  “I’d like to reschedule,” I said, and then didn’t.

  Over the phone the neurologist put me on artificial energy (vitamins B-2, B-6, B-12) and wrote me prescriptions for military-grade magnesium and the headache medication of choice, triptans, which desensitize pain nerves and reduce blood vessel constriction in the brain. I took triptans in pill form and by self-injection with a prefilled syringe that I jabbed into my own thigh. The neurologist also prescribed sedatives. (Whenever I had a problem, whatever the problem, I was prescribed sedatives. Women like me receive sedatives for pain instead of pain medication for two reasons: hurting women are seen as “anxious,” not “hurting,” and medication treats the affliction, while sedatives shush the woman with the affliction.)

  I swallowed the sedatives and felt better. So I swallowed more. Even better. I took just enough to sleep and just enough to be awake and just enough to sit still and initiate a
time-lapse. Later I’d add to the mix and go through three thousand bottles of Advil and prescription-strength Advil and Advil Cold & Sinus, as well as multiple rounds of oral steroids that felt like snorting cocaine without having to snort cocaine, plus muscle relaxants and Benadryl I’d pop for nonallergy reasons. The pills took care of me, and because of the pills I’d be okay. This is for my pain, and this, and this. I’d do anything to relieve my pain, anything at all; I would have given blow jobs to Fyre Festival employees to relieve my pain.

  “Are you better yet?”

  “Get better!”

  “I hope you’re feeling better!”

  “How are you?”

  This is what well-intentioned people asked or said to me, to my face.

  They expected me—and every other woman in pain—to answer pleasantly or exuberantly, with pain redacted.

  I hated to be insolent, but I was not better or getting better or feeling better. The allegation of “better” lost its significance to a person in a pain that no one else was in, a pain no one knows unless it brings them to their own knees on their own floor.

  “Have you tried going back to normal?” the same people would ask. “Or not feeling so sorry for yourself?” Like that which didn’t kill me must be gotten over without further ado. Like I was unfun to hang around and could I please stop that now?

  They suggested “relaxation” and “juicing” and “showering” and “going agog at the splendid majesty of the sunrise sky” or whatever—

  “Could it be that you don’t want to get better?” they wondered out loud, implying I was doing this to myself and making a choice, an ugly choice, living with pain I decided to have.

  I didn’t want to talk about it anymore with the feeling-fine.

  What they were really doing with their questions was putting my pain out of their minds by suggesting it was all in my head.

  I must not have wanted to get better when during my annual physical that fall my primary care physician said what we pray they’ll never say. “Hmm.”

  She was doing a breast exam, and my breasts were lumpy.

  “Which is probably nothing to worry about,” she said and referred me to radiology for an ultrasound.

  Days later a male technician smeared goop all over my chest and moved a wand in circles as he watched the attached monitor and pressed down without pity. He lingered over one spot, pressing harder and harder for longer and longer—probably nothing to worry about.

  The male radiologist joined us. “I want to biopsy this,” he said. “You shouldn’t worry about it.”

  Once alone I used a roll of brown paper towel to sop up the goo and then scheduled the biopsy for as soon as possible.

  The earliest available appointment was in one month. I had to maybe have breast cancer and not worry about it for thirty-one days.

  My mom has had breast cancer three times. I was in eighth grade; I was twenty-eight; I was thirty-two when she told me about the small malignant tumor in her left breast. But apart from that she kept her cancer from me, and I wouldn’t have known she had cancer if I didn’t, actually, know. She wore blond wigs or head coverings day and night, and not once did I see her bald scalp. She washed everyone’s laundry and went to work and prepared every meal. She also downplayed or withheld specifics: the third recurrence was “a molecule of cancer,” and her double mastectomy was “like going to the drive-through” and dropping off her breasts without leaving her car. (“Drive-by mastectomies”—an extensive surgery of body-part removal downgraded to an outpatient procedure—are routine.)

  My grandmother, my mom’s mom, had pancreatic cancer in 1966, and no one told her. Doctor’s orders. As if to name her pain would cause her more. My grandmother would ask my mom what was happening to her, but my mom was told not to tell her, out of love. In turn, my grandmother, out of love, would ask my mom, age fifteen, to go into her bedroom and close the door so in the living room my grandmother could cry out from pain she didn’t understand. (Male doctors refused her morphine, claiming that she—although dying—would become addicted; instead, they severed her nerves twice.)

  “It was not mentioned,” my mom says now about her mother’s illness.

  My mom worshipped her mother, a brown-eyed brunette with glow-in-the-dark pale skin like me. I wasn’t told about my grandmother’s pain until I was sick, years after I’d written a short story about a woman who tries to drown herself in her bathtub—not to kill herself but her pain, to be dead only to end her dying—which my grandmother had tried. (This is a family secret because the act was “out of character,” because my grandmother was “strong.”) How did I write that story without knowing about my grandmother’s suicide attempt? How did I know without knowing? I just did.

  “This will feel like being at the dentist,” the male radiologist said about the fine needle aspiration, moments before the biopsy.

  For most minor procedures on and in my lady parts—procedures that feel anywhere from painful to there-are-no-adjectives-to-encapsulate-how-painful-this-is painful—I’d pop two or three Advil half an hour beforehand, which doctors suggested if they remembered. But for a biopsy, aspirin-like medications (e.g., ibuprofen) are forbidden, so I was stone-cold sober.

  “You may feel some discomfort,”2 the male radiologist said as he shot me in the right boob with local anesthesia, then shot me again in the boob with a hollow needle that sucked out boob innards, and then shot me a third time in the boob to insert a stainless steel grain of sand as a marker for future radiologists (in case the biopsy disclosed cancer cells).

  “LIAR,” I’d wanted to yell. I’ve been going to the dentist my whole life—for cleanings, retainers, mouthguards, headgear, braces, teeth-pulling, wisdom-teeth removal, and gum surgery in which the top layer of my soft palate was snipped off and stitched onto four spots above my teeth where the gums had receded to the root from grinding—and the dentist was not like a breast biopsy at all, not at all.

  Nor was the post-biopsy mammogram—an archaic process that pancakes one breast at a time—like the dentist.

  The male radiologist, who did not have to sleep with boobs or walk with boobs or travel with boobs, also did not prepare me for the coming days and weeks where I’d have to hold my bleeding boob to stand or move in any way, or if I were on the subway, sit and fold over onto my thighs and stifle feral noises.

  My lump was benign. It sits in my chest with the stainless steel grain of sand at its heart, and once a month I do a self-breast-exam to see if it’s grown bigger than a golf ball. It hasn’t yet.

  The male radiologist could have told me to put my boob on ice or at the very least acknowledged the difference in our chests. I would learn—not from the mouth of any doctor but from reading books by women—that the institution of medicine rarely acknowledges sex differences that show up in every human organ, tissue, and cell, and in most diseases. This disregard begins in medical schools. Caroline Criado Perez writes in Invisible Women, “Medical education has been focused on a male ‘norm,’ with everything that falls outside that designated ‘atypical’ or even ‘abnormal,’” so medical students “learn about physiology, and female physiology. Anatomy, and female anatomy.” Just like how there are “executives” and “female executives”; “presidential candidates” and “strident hags who are running for office for some reason.” Most medical school curriculum hardly integrates sex- and gender-based medicine; AARP found that “most medical schools and residency programs don’t teach aspiring physicians about menopause,” despite every cisgender woman eventually going through it (“nearly 80 percent of medical residents admit that they feel ‘barely comfortable’ discussing or treating menopause”).

  This bias enters medical research, which often excludes women. Perez quotes article after article that states some version of “Female bodies (both the human and animal variety) are… too complex, too variable, too costly to be tested on. Integrating sex and gender into research is seen as ‘burdensome.’”

  (Note: when medicine s
ays “female” and “women,” the institution has a smaller group in mind. “Woman” often means “white, cisgender” woman, which does not represent all women, not Black women, Indigenous women, women of color, trans women, nonbinary people, people with uteruses, pregnant women, menopausal women, incarcerated women, immigrant women, uninsured women, working-class women, women in shelters, fat women,3 or disabled women, even though differences in race, history, age, class, and circumstance alter a patient’s treatment and treatment options.)

  What the male radiologist didn’t say said it all: that millions of women are in unexplainable pain because a woman’s pain just isn’t important, and that if men had to experience a woman’s pain, only then would a woman’s pain be a matter of life and death, and attended to. Male artist Pablo Picasso once explained, “Women are suffering machines.” Like women are well versed in living with pain and are bred for pain, for giving birth when birth splits us open.

  In all modesty, a woman’s pain is a lot to bear; who can bear it but women?

  Women report less pain than they bear. In her essay “The Pain Scale,” author Eula Biss rates her pain a three, and her father, a physician, says, “‘Three is nothing.’” To Biss, a three is “mail remains unopened. Thoughts are rarely followed to their conclusions. Sitting becomes unbearable after one hour. Nausea sets in.” Sonya Huber, in Pain Woman Takes Your Keys, rated her chronic pain lower than it felt so she’d “be manageable”; she grapples, “If I rate my pain a two or a three, do I mean that I thought about death only two or three times in the past week?”

  Whenever I was asked to rate my pain, I sensed the trick question. The “right” answer involved a lot of subtraction: My pain is killing me, which is “ten” out of ten—

  but my pain isn’t that bad unless it actually kills me, so it’s a “nine”—