Meredith’s Musings | My Body, My Hormones

article by MEREDITH MCKINNIE

Growing up, Mom routinely took us to the pediatrician. I associated Dr. Bodron’s intense stare and half donut of white hair with knowledge. Men who looked like him in white coats knew things; they helped sick people. Since I rarely got sick, I only went for checkups. Other than the obligatory prick of the finger, the painless visits promised at least one Dum Dum – preferably green apple. My knack for smiling on command typically warranted two. But after childhood, the visits just stopped. My family didn’t pursue routine checkups. We only saw doctors when home remedies had been exhausted. I always chuckle at the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding with the Windex. My father possesses a similar faith in Epsom salt. Overall, the suck-it-up mentality reigned supreme in our household.

Needless to say, as an adult the trend continued. When people inquired about my primary care physician, I paused in confusion. Did adults see doctors regularly? It sounds silly, but what is normal becomes normalized, even when it’s obvious to everyone else. I never missed a dentist visit and counted Dr. Nolan as the nicest old man of the White Coats, but medical doctors meant scales and shame – no thank you. I didn’t even seek out an OB-GYN until I was almost 30, well past the time for starting a birth control regimen and whatnot. Sexually active for almost a decade, I had just been winging it and absent any “problems,” never thought much about it. After bumbling about for an OB-GYN that I liked, I sought a local gentleman highly recommended by women I trust who think like me. On my first visit, while in the stirrups, his phone kept buzzing. Never one to mince words, I raised up quickly and asked if he needed to get that. Befuddled, he quickly explained that his family group message was riddled with LSU chat. Considering football highly overrated, I sighed, settled back on the crunchy paper, and sucked back in my stomach – a futile gesture.

Six years later, that OB with the boyish face has delivered both of my girls, seen me perform a raunchy monologue on stage, and is probably the person who knows my medical history the best. I trust him because he doesn’t lie to me. I appreciate direct honesty delivered with care. I also instinctively distrust people who take their time, and he always seems like he has somewhere else to be – my kind of human. We banter from time to time, or at least I think we do, and it puts me at ease.

At 40, I’ve become more attuned to my body, which betrays me regularly since giving birth. I don’t recognize the fat shifts, the altered cycles, the skin rashes that appear out of nowhere. After stumbling across some information about hormones, I was convinced that mine were out of whack, that I needed supplements. I couldn’t concentrate, forgot simple words or why I walked into a room, woke up routinely in the middle of the night and couldn’t fall right back to sleep. I confided to the boyish OB my issues and asked about getting my hormones checked. He wasn’t convinced and felt that even if my hormones were off, that supplements weren’t necessarily the answer. Young Meredith in the pediatrician’s office would have smiled, left with a Dum Dum and taken his word for it. But 40-year-old Meredith said “Check em, Doc.” The nurse drew the 877 vials of blood a few minutes later. I felt woozy and powerful. I had advocated for myself, albeit to a familiar audience, but for the first time in a medical setting.

When the nurse called a few days later, she insisted my hormones were fine and then gave me the levels because Doc knew I would ask to do my own research (and he was right). Other than a dip in Vitamin D, which wasn’t surprising since I spend every waking minute inside studying, my hormone levels appeared on the higher end of normal for a woman my age. My body was changing amidst a radically-paced life of school, toddlers, friendships, schedules for a family of 5, and all the other daily activities that parenting entails – not to mention living. Too busy to pay attention to myself, my body insisted I slow down. I can’t say I’ve met its expectations, but I’m more aware of its demands. My rebellious spirit resents being told what to do, but I’ll come around.

What I took from this experience was the importance of self-advocacy. Yes, it came late, but I had a late start. I listened to my body, and even more so my mind, and demanded the test. The doctor’s office is a complicated place, made more awkward by nakedness, hard conversations, and high expectations. The White Coats do have medical knowledge, but we have our body knowledge. We walk around in this skin all day. Collectively, we can take care of ourselves, but only if we show up and speak out.