Bearded Ladies Pay Extra

As some of you may know, I rung in the new year happily jobless.  But in cutting loose a job that made me miserable, I also lost some pretty cushy benefits which my new job hasn’t replaced.  And that’s okay, really--it's a small price to pay for happiness--but applying for brand new insurance has been a pain in the butt.  Particularly life insurance.

There’s no need to go into the details, really, other than to say the company I’ve been dealing with seemed very concerned by this cyst on my ovary.  I had to jump through a few little hoops to get them the information they asked for, including driving across town for ultrasound results which subsequently got lost or never arrived, making them ask me to go across town to get them again when they would not release them to me without a request from the insurance company first... and then I wasn't notified when the original information was finally found.  And after more than a month of silence, I received a letter.

They’re unable to offer me the original premium, but not because of my ovary.  Because of my idiopathic hirsutism.  If I want their life insurance, I have to pay a higher rate.

How high?  Two-thirds of the way to the amount I’d have to pay if I were a smoker.  That’s how risky the medical underwriters deem idiopathic hirsutism.

Yeah.

Now, I used to sell health insurance as part of my last job.  I had to explain risk categories to many, many upset people.  These people had some frightening pre-existing conditions.  I cannot comprehend how idiopathic hirsutism would up anyone’s risk category.

I could understand if the hair had a serious underlying cause that could affect your overall health, like PCOS or a tumor.  But if the underwriters had my health records, they would have been able to see I was tested for such causes and have been found healthy, the hirsutism inexplicable.  There are no known health risks associated with my being hairy, except the side-effects of the medication I choose to take, which I’ve been tolerating for well for over a year now.

I wondered if they thought hirsutism made me a higher suicide risk, but if that is an indicator of someone’s mental health risk, maybe they should be asking all their applicants to submit photos of themselves so they can evaluate the self esteem each applicant should have based on how they look.  Ridiculous, right?

So the only other thing I could think of that would scare an underwriter is the fact that there is no known cause.  But see, if it were that much of a danger to my life, wouldn’t a doctor treat it as such, too?  Why, when no cause was found, did the focus turn to helping me live with the cosmetic aspects of it, if it was indeed so dangerous to have?  A vulnerability to normal amounts of male hormones in one's body also manifests as acne and excess sebum.  Are people with bad skin penalized too?  I mean, their underlying cause can be just as "idiopathic."

It just flies in the face of what I’ve been trying to tell myself for so long; that idiopathic hirsutism is a simple genetic quirk, out of my control and not such a big deal.  Now I have to pay more because I have it?  Do I at least get a discount for having blue eyes?  Maybe I should advise the company that I faint when I get needles, and see how much more I have to pay for that.  That, at least, presents a real risk of smashing my head open when I fall unconscious to the floor.  This infuriates me, and it infuriates me that it infuriates me.

I wish I could speak to these underwriters, just to understand why.  Why am I being penalized for the ability to grow a beard when I am otherwise young and healthy?  Do they even know what idiopathic hirsutism is?  Or does their little price chart have a column that assigns a dollar value to anything with “idiopathic” preceding it?  But alas, even when I sold insurance and had all sorts of backways and direct phone numbers, the underwriters were ensconced in some holy sanctum that no one could reach.  My chances of getting to speak to the anonymous decision-maker who looked at my medical records and judged my life based on my hairiness of all things, are probably nil.

So do I swallow my wounded bearded-lady pride and pay the higher premium?  Or do I continue my quest for life insurance and hope I don’t die of skin sensitivity to normal amounts of androgen until I’m covered?

Sometimes

I have to deal with being a woman with a beard every day of my life.

Every.  Day.

So sue me if the odd time, coupled with other events that might be currently wailing on my emotions, I can't handle it.



These words, which I can never seem to say out loud, are directed at anyone who feels I have disappointed them by giving up for a day and refusing to leave the house.  Sometimes, I don't have the energy to fight.

What Happened to August?

Wow, I can't believe I haven't updated the blog for a month!  I really apologize for that.  After my trip I experienced a vague need to hold on to that state of mind, and let a lot of things slide in my life for a week after I returned.  And then my computer needed a complete hard-drive wipe and restoration. And then I had a week full of appointments, mostly doctors, and then I got sick.  Aaaand that, in a nutshell, was August.

Camping was great.  We got stuck in such bad traffic on the way out that we had to overnight in a highway-side motel, but that was just a part of the adventure.  The campsite facilities have been seriously upgraded since the last time I was there, greatly reducing a part of my fear--that of having spiders drop on my head arachnophobia style.  Our site happened to be nice and close to the showers, too, so that I felt like I had more opportunities to shower than I needed.  It took a huge load off my shoulders.

I was really hoping to have some photos to prove to you guys that for about a week, I, the hairiest woman of my personal acquaintance, lived in a bathing suit.  I had an awesome bathing suit, very modest, with a low rise at the legs so I didn't have to fiddle with the bikini line all the time.  I didn't shave my body every day, and sometimes I did my face in the tent with a stainless steel bowl of boiled water.  I never did try the sink in the washroom, mostly because they were more popular with the teenage contingent of our party--a contingent I had not realized would be present on this trip.  (And a contingent that flipped out when they thought a waitress at a restaurant one night was in M-to-F transition... so... didn't think they were ready to have their minds blown with the knowledge that sometimes, women just have beards.)  But overall, although I wasn't terribly close to most of the people I was camping with, they were much, much more down-to-earth than previous camping companions.  For the most part, I would not have had a problem telling them, "Excuse me while I go shave my face."

Also I tried highway driving and wake-boarding for the first time, got some great new shoes, discovered a wonderful bookstore, and made some new friends.  I read several books and was so relaxed not having to do anything else.  And I have to say, working through some of my fears really heightened that feeling.  It may be the only time I'll get away this year, but it was excellent.



The appointments went well, too.  I got back my old GP, the one who sent me to the endocrinologist in the first place, and she will continue to fill my prescriptions for Spiro and Diane so I don't need to keep seeing the endo.  The cyst on my ovary is stable--not shrinking but not growing--and the OBGYN didn't recommend any surgical intervention.  So now I know why I'm hirsute and I know why I get pain, and I'm tolerating my treatments.  What next?

I've got to call the laser clinic I used to visit, and see if the laser technician who helped me before still works there.  She was lovely and I'd want to give her the business.  Also apparently my GP is concerned about some moles on my stomach and wants a dermatologist to look at them.  Just have to wait for the referral on that one.  So that's what I'm working toward now.

Ultrasound Today and What's Up Next Week

I was meant to be having my ultrasound yesterday, but a migraine made me throw up all my water forty-five minutes before my appointment.  (Side note: throwing up only water is a very bizarre experience.)  I managed to nab a cancellation spot today, which was very fortunate considering that clinic was booking into the end of August already.  I really wanted to get the thing over with before I went camping--one less thing to worry about. 

Thankfully the migraine had all but departed by this morning and I could hold and process the water okay.  I think I’m starting to get the hang of how much water I personally need to drink, because this was probably the most comfortable ultrasound yet.  It probably helped tremendously that the technician was super-fast.  Almost before I knew it, I was done. Now I just have to wait until my OBGYN comes back from holidays to hear the results, but I’m not worried.

My reward for “being good” at my ultrasound (i.e., "going, as if I had any other choice") was taking a little detour and picking up my favorite ingredients for croissant sandwiches--namely, croissants.  It’s totally irrelevant to this blog, really, but I’m trying to get a bit more personal so you guys can get to know me as a person.  So now you know that I love croissants, and that I will use any excuse to spoil myself.

Ultrasounds really aren’t so big a deal, but they always make me emotional.  I really, really hate leaving the house with a full bladder (you guys know my worst recurring nightmare involves having to pee and finding no suitable place to do it), and having my lady parts laid bare on a screen is a very vulnerable feeling.  Couple that with helplessly puking my guts out less than 48 hours ago (something else I am a huge wimp about is vomiting) and I feel all stretched thin and fragile, like tissue paper.

What’s weirder, though, is I feel most vividly happy when I feel wrung-out like that.  I get happy about all the simple things, like sunshine, puppy kisses, and croissants.   I’m strangely fearless, as though throwing up and having an ultrasound were the worst possible things that could happen to me and there’s nothing else to be scared of.  I go out in public without make-up, I ask for help from strangers even though I find it scary, I sing to the radio.  What do you suppose that means?





So next week, ladies, I’ll be encamped by a beautiful lake with a lot of people who don't know me that well.  A lot of my energy has been directed towards gearing up for that and trying not to be too scared of it, and now that the ultrasound is over with, I feel more relaxed and free to look forward to the holiday.  Part of this “gearing up” has included forcing myself to buy some new bathing suits--ones that I simply like, not ones that I feel will hide most of my flaws.  I intend to really face my fears next week.

See you all soon, and take care of yourselves!

Can't Go Back On It Now...

I am going camping.  Yep, I’ve committed.

And not long after I did, I felt a surge of panic.  I’d have to go into a spider-infested shower stall every day to awkwardly shave without a mirror.  Other women would complain I’m taking too long.  My skin would be terrible.  I’d be avoiding peoples' cameras.  I’d dread waking up every morning to do it all again.

I can’t do this.  This won’t be a vacation.

The feeling hasn’t stopped with time.  I’ve been getting waves of doubt and worry intermittently since.  I’ve tried to distract myself by buying some cute new swimsuits, and reminding myself that I have a right to feel good about myself as I am and no one should be able to prevent me.  Not the people I’ll be camping with, not the impatient women in the campsite washroom, or me when I look at photos of myself.  I’ve told myself my self esteem and my skills at hair removal have changed a lot since the last time I went camping.  Thanks to my medication, the severity of my hirsutism and acne have improved, and I'm more comfortable with stubble than I ever was before.  Even my family has changed in that time.  And I’ve been to this campsite before, so I know exactly what to expect of the facilities.

So between moments of alarm, I’m working on mentally preparing myself.  How do I know I’ll be mocked this time for being so adamant about showering every morning?  What if I shaved over one of the sinks of the campsite bathroom where I’d have a mirror, so everyone could see exactly what I'm doing and why it takes so long in the shower?  How can I be sure I couldn’t endure the curious looks?  Heck, my morning ablutions could turn into my own personal educational demonstration on what so many women have to go through in secret.

But I don’t think I should be using all my prep-work to obsess about my hirsutism.  That’s not what a holiday is for.  I’m supposed to be looking forward to the things I’ll see and do.  It’s been so long since I’ve eaten at a campfire, talking and laughing with the smell of woodsmoke in my nostrils.  I can only distantly remember the morning fog clinging to the lake and the mug of instant Swiss Mocha coffee mix to stave off the cold.  I used to love clinging to a biscuit dragged behind a motorboat until my arms got tired and I would fly off into the freezing lake.  And I’ve totally forgotten what it’s like to be cut off from technology and work and responsibilities, and just lie on a beach and read. 

I have to think about why I felt the urge to go in the first place.  This is supposed to be fun.  I must refuse to let hirsutism get in the way of that.  If I refuse hard enough, maybe it will be so.