Seriously. Don't be a Boob.

Let's not pretend we don't all watch shows like My Strange Addiction and I Didn't Know I was Pregnant and I'm My Own Grandpa. Ok, that last one is just a song--a shout out to my age group. You know you're singing along and thinking to yourself, the only episode I've seen of that first one is where the lady eats her couch cushions.

Yeah. Me too. I honestly couldn't even make it through that whole episode because, well, yuck. Just yuck.

But the other night, that sweet man of mine wrangled me into a whole new genre of reality horror I didn't even know existed. To be fair, my knowledge of the genre pretty much starts and stops at the Blair Witch Project. And don't say that movie wasn't real. It was every bit as real as the racist Bachelor and the convict Survivor. Every damn bit.

Now back to the point. Sometimes Eric and I like to watch a little TV in the evening. After dark. When people are preparing for a night's slumber. And sometimes (see: all times) Eric is the man. His new favorite song (I wish I was kidding) is aloe blacc's The Man. And being the man, sometimes (all times) he has control of the TV.

So there we were, not ready to sleep but also no longer interested in being productive. But even in our least productive state, we were chatting about Eric's pathophysiology class, which I have to admit is pretty interesting. And I'm not really sure how it happened, but somehow we segued from chatting about pathophysiology to a real live demonstration of the crap that happens in people's bodies--the reality horror series Monster Inside Me.

I'm not going to ruin your night with the gory details. Nor am I keen to admit that I actually watched two episodes before crying uncle. But here's what I will tell you: when an expert on the show detailed how long one afflicted man waited to see a doctor about his disturbing symptoms, I leaned over to Eric and said, "I'd be so dead if I had that."

What seemed like an exorbitant amount of time to the host of the show was a real wake up call for me. When it comes to health issues, I like to sit on things for a good 5-7 years, just to see what develops. 

Although it'll infuriate them both to read this, I blame that laissez faire approach on my parents. Yep. The doctor and the nurse. It is a profound understatement to say that my parents needed to see blood before they could be bothered to worry about a health concern. They needed a death certificate.

As is typical in familial relationships, this apple fell disturbingly close to the tree. As I watched Monster Inside Me, I was absolutely horrified to realize that there is a really good chance I might die of something treatable.

That, I can't blame on my parents. I'm an adult, and I could change my ways. And believe me, I'd love to. But I want to be honest here, just in case there's anyone out there who might need to change with me.

The main reason I don't go to doctors is because there is a tendency for some medical professionals to minimize, ignore, and misdiagnose women. Although you don't hear the term "wandering uterus" bandied about anymore, and doctors rarely treat women with a good old fashioned orgasm these days, women's real symptoms are often reduced to psychological or "female" problems.

I have very real, very personal experience with this. I lived with undiagnosed celiac disease until I was 20 years old. Undiagnosed pernicious anemia until I was 27. Unnoticed broken growth plate in my hip until I was 27. The list goes on.

And these are things for which I had very real symptoms! Symptoms I described to doctors! Symptoms that very seriously screwed with my life. Symptoms that, going undiagnosed for so long, have caused my body lasting damage.

I don't share my list of ailments because I want sympathy or to call out the medical community, many of whom are wonderful people doing amazing work. I'm sharing it because I want women to empower themselves in the health department.

Don't let doctors intimidate your or reduce your symptoms to hysteria. You are the expert on your body. And if you're not, you should be. 

This goes for you men, too. We all know the kind of man who comes undone at the sign of the first sniffle, but there are a lot of strong, silent types out there. Don't strong, silent yourself into an early grave because you waited too long. 

We've lost far too many good men and women to the monsters inside them. I, perhaps more than most, know how hard it is to make a doctor's appointment. Even harder to follow through. And harder still to stomach the patronizing response you may receive. 

But please, if you have legitimate, worrisome symptoms, GO. If you don't find relief in Western medicine, explore alternatives. Take care of yourself because no one else is going to do that. And why should they? Your body, your responsibility.

So don't be a boob. Give yourself a monthly breast exam. Do the male equivalent of that if you're sporting the other equipment. Don't ignore persistent headaches or joint pain or an unsettled stomach. You could (you probably don't, but you could) have a monster inside you.