#looking at the doctor's statement

[realasslesbian]

Personal but: tomorrow I gotta call my neurologist's office and ask them to transfer my medical record to my doctor, so that he can sign off on my disability pension, and I can't wait to hear what excuse I'm going to get for why they cannot perform this basic fucking task. It's gonna be like "actually because we write our medical records on circle-shaped paper we're unable to scan it into normal square-shaped paper format, so that's why we can't transfer your medical record, guess you'll just have to choose between death by seizure or death by starvation uwu". And I know anyone reading this will be thinking I'm just being silly and dramatic and to that I say: tune in tomorrow and find out lmao

[fluffylord]

Gideon Shepherd + outfits THE DEVIL'S HOUR

[bumblingbabooshka]

TNG episode where the ship is taking a bunch of different doctors and scientists to an important medical conference and Worf ends up developing a crush on one of the Vulcan doctors and they get along really well. They both seem lonely and their interactions are sweet. At the same time Worf is trying to beat an unknown opponent at a subspace strategy game which is circulating amongst all the security teams Starfleet-wide (Worf is very good at the game and so is equal parts frustrated and thrilled by this opponent's skill) and during one of their conversations/outings the Vulcan doctor points out a flaw in Worf's opponent's game which he never would have noticed on his own. This doesn't allow him to win necessarily but it does keep them from constantly stalemating one another. The end of the episode has Worf nearly confess to the doctor as they finally reach the conference, but it turns out her husband is waiting for her. Her husband is Tuvok and he was ALSO the opponent which Worf was fighting tooth and nail (on two different fronts?). Tuvok and Worf are both shocked by this and suspicious of one another. Was Worf seducing his wife as a tactic? Was Tuvok using his wife to lower Worf's guard? Doctor T'Pel seems amused, undercutting the tension. Gentlemen, it's only a game. (Both men remember it is indeed only a game and appear sheepish) She wishes Worf well and then gets on the transport, informing the room that her stay on the Enterprise was indeed quite enjoyable. Tuvok & Worf agree to continue playing that game until there is a decisive winner.

[dragontamer05]

So Which is it????

[tiktaalic]

It really slays thag the doctor and Donna both got drenched while donna is in a white dress even and the DOCTOR is the one that gets the aWooga treatment

[nounpolycule]

My toxic trait is because of how character development works and how the story impacts how characters behave I think Ten who was in a better headspace would have treated Martha better and Nine who had just lost Rose (say, she was actually killed in Dalek or something) not only would not have treated Martha better if they were traveling together but probably would have not even invited her at all

[fauvester]

tain absolutely had millions stashed away in weird offplanet banks across the quadrant For A Rainy Day. and after he dies it all trickles down thru the wartorn legal system through mila and then to her sole inheritor. by rite of everyone else's cardassian investments being obliterated garak is now the richest man in the cardassian empire

[pockets-and-paint]

hhhhhh wish me luck boys

[beeapocalypse]

head in my hands dedicating far too much thought to this anatomy class student turned archival assistant idea. her names amelia novák (jan novák from the statement. amelia was the most popular name for baby girls in london 2014) and her little fear farm on the side as she tries to stay on her best behavior inside the institute to spy on them for as long as possible is shuffling thru a myriad of different identities and going out to the same circuit of clubs at night to freak out the ppl who come to recognize Bits of each identity intermixing with all the others

[lurking-latinist]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Doctor Who (2005) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Missy (Doctor Who) Additional Tags: Drabble, Makeup, performative femininity as a form of violence, if that means anything Series: Part 81 of Aurelia's Drabbles Summary:

Missy likes makeup.

[carrieway]

in other news i bickered with ethan over whether or not im chronically ill . i think i lost .

[xythlia]

so I think they discovered someone at the pharmacy where I get my meds is stealing pills

[osmiabee]

Hi. I'm a biologist of colour with PCOS. There is significant amount of error and misinformation here.

Hirsutism is NOT a diagnostic criterion for PCOS - let alone the most important one - it's one of many indicative symptoms which can include adult acne, infertility, "male pattern" excess hair growth and "male pattern" balding - There are not considered diagnostic criteria as these are secondary symptoms that occur due to excess testosterone.

The diagnostic criteria are all direct symptoms: you need 2/3 for official diagnosis: Irregular periods (self-reported), Visible cysts on ovaries (via ultrasound), and Excess "above range" Testosterone (via blood test),

When you test for what is considered a "healthy range" you have to exclude people who are unhealthy and exhibiting symptoms, as they will skew the data. Worst case scenario this can lead to people NOT getting the diagnosis and treatment they need because they are considered "normal" even while exhibiting secondary symptoms.

The 97.5th percentile is a common statistical tool that excludes the extremes of the data to set a realistic average range. When someone comes in with symptoms of a disease (in the example above, men with osteoporosis) and you test them and find their hormones are different to 95-97.5% of a healthy, asymptomatic population, you can then point at that hormone as a potential cause of disease and correct it.

I cannot describe to you how important it is to exclude people with the "makes too much testosterone" disorder, while testing a baseline population to get an idea of the "normal/healthy" levels of testosterone.

Because PCOS is so common (2-10% of the population depending on your statistical model) that bar/threshold for testosterone in women is set high. Likely because even while trying to exclude people exhibiting PCOS symptoms (including excess hair) so many people with underlying PCOS (and high androgens) are largely asymptomatic (half of cases accourding to the NHS), and either live their whole lives unaware or do not get tested until they have significant fertility or secondary health problems later down the line.

In my own case when I got my results back I was the third woman that *day* that my doctor had to call to say "sorry, your androgen results were quite high but technically within the normal range," likely because that 97.5 percentile bar they're using as a baseline is skewed by the fact that a huge proportion of women have PCOS, and even while exc they can't exclude us all from the baseline based on diagnosis, family history, and secondary symptoms obvious to doctors (like hirsutism) alone!

These are all tools made to inform individualised medicine: despite my "normal range" androgens I am currently taking Spironolactone (a testosterone reducing drug - commonly used in HRT) to combat the effects of PCOS because my "in range" hormones were still clearly too much for my individual body, and caused symptoms that made me unhealthy (anaemic and in severe pain due to periods + painful acne) and put me at risk of things like diabetes and heart disease later down the line.

This isn't about just arbitrarily excluding women with "too much" hair. But about setting a useful baseline for XX-female high-androgen disorders.

BECAUSE BEING ABLE TO ACCURATELY DIAGNOSE PCOS IS A GOOD THING.

The linked study above that was immediately dismissed as weird and racist, looked at the symptoms of a diverse group of american women with PCOS, and found preliminary data that the areas of skin that respond to high androgen levels (due to PCOS) differ depending on race. (for example - African Americans commonly developed facial hirsutism under their chins, while hispanic individuals were more likely to develop it on their arms and legs).

STUDIES LIKE THIS ARE GOOD, ACTUALLY, BECAUSE IF WE ONLY HAVE DATA FOR WHITE PEOPLE, POC WILL BE UNDERDIAGNOSED.

These kinds of studies are important, because it tells dermatologists where to look for secondary symptoms of PCOS in their patients, which is important because 92% of people with PCOS have symptoms affecting their skin, and 1 in 4 undiagnosed people are referred for PCOS diagnosis by a dermatologist.

IN CONCLUSION: This isn't about defining "woman" or "normal female" or setting "arbitrary" "spider eating" statistical rules for what is an acceptable testosterone range. It's about creating an accurate model for disease, which despite potentially affecting 1/10 people with uteruses, is massively underresearched and underdiagnosed. Because of medical misogyny. And racism to boot.

It's true that huge swathes of medical practice are rooted in misogyny and racism, and uphold a gender and sex binary that is, in reality, far more flexible and complicated than historic tests would allow for, but this post is inaccurate and relies on borderline deliberate misinterpretation of the medical data to make that point.

I forget why, but I was on the Wikipedia page for polycystic ovarian syndrome, and I started researching hirsutism in women, and I learned the following things in this order:

there's a diagnostic criteria used to evaluate how hairy a woman is

This is important because being too hairy is a diagnostic criteria of most disorders that cause hyperandrogenism

Disorders that cause hyperandrogenism can be diagnosed by...measuring how hairy you are (this is the main and most important diagnostic criterion for PCOS)

Disorders that cause hyperandrogenism are important because they are correlated with obesity, infertility, and...being too hairy?

I think to myself, wait, what is a normal range for testosterone in women? I find this article...which set reference ranges for "normal" testosterone levels in women...EXCLUDING WOMEN WITH PCOS?

Quote: "Polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) is another notable condition in genetic (XX) females, which is characterized by excessive ovarian production of androgens. This condition is included for comparison with DSD, as the affected females with PCOS are genetic and phenotypic females. The elevated levels of testosterone in these females can lead to hyperandrogenism, a clinical disorder characterized variably by hirsutism, acne, male-pattern balding, metabolic disturbances, impaired ovulation and infertility. PCOS is a common condition, affecting 7%-10% of premenopausal women."

So: the study claims to demonstrate a clear distinction between the normal range of hormone levels in "Healthy" men and "healthy" women...with "healthy" being defined in the study as...having hormones within the "normal" range.......................

So I researched what the clinically established "normal" range for testosterone in women is

THERE ISN'T ONE????

Quote from the above article: "Several different approaches have been used to define endocrine disorders. The statistical approach establishes the lower and the upper limits of hormone concentrations solely on the basis of the statistical distribution of hormone levels in a healthy reference population. As an illustration, hypo- and hypercalcemia have been defined on the basis of the statistical distribution of serum calcium concentrations. Using this approach, androgen deficiency could be defined as the occurrence of serum testosterone levels that are below the 97.5th percentile of testosterone levels in healthy population of young men. A second approach is to use a threshold hormone concentration below or above which there is high risk of developing adverse health outcomes. This approach has been used to define osteoporosis and hypercholesterolemia. However, we do not know with certainty the thresholds of testosterone levels which are associated with adverse health outcomes."

What the fuck?

What the fuck?

It's batshit crazy to make a diagnostic criteria for medical disorders by placing arbitrary cutoffs within 2-5% of either end of a statistical distribution. What the actual fuck?

"The results came back, you have Statistical Outlier Disease." "What treatments are available?" "Well, first, we recommend dietary change. You should probably stop eating so many spiders."

Another article which attempted to do this

Quote: "Subjects with signs of hirsutism or with a personal history of diabetes or hypertension, or a family history of polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) were excluded."

"We're going to figure out the typical range of testosterone levels that occur in women! First, we're going to exclude all the women that are too hairy from the study. I am very good at science."

Anyway I got off topic but there are apparently race-specific diagnostic tools for "hirsutism." That's kinda weird on its own but when I looked more into this in relation to race I found this article that straight-up uses the term "mongoloid"

[alexthetrashyracoon]

“You look like my boyfriend.”

Simon raises a brow at that statement and sits down in the nearby chair. His eyes on you. “Is that so, lovely?”

“Mhm,” you agree with a confident nod and loopy. “No. My boyfriend is prettier than you.”

He isn’t sure if he should take it as a compliment or as an insult, for now Simon decides to not comment on it. “You must be lucky to have such a pretty boyfriend then.” He grins and sips his cheap hospital coffee.

“Oh, I am! He’s pretty and cool and strong. And you should be careful because he’ll be here soon!” You pout, shoving your lower lip forward.

Cute. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be gone before he shows up.” Simon reassures you and pats your thigh.

You don’t reply, the remaining anesthesia must still be running its course through your body after the surgery in which the doctor took out your inflamed appendix, snoring softly in the otherwise quiet room. “Good thing your boyfriend is already here, lovely.” Simon chuckles before tugging the thin hospital blanket higher over your chest and keeping watch as your chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. “And he will be here when you wake up again. He will always be there, my lovely.”

[leaningluthor]

they should bring in more women writers

[nereidprinc3ss]

hi!!! here for a request. can we have a imagine where reader has a wound from surgery or whatever on like in a rib and she hides to change the bandages but then spencer sees her and he’s like ‘lemme help you’ and…

you do you for the rest!

in which spencer helps BAU fem!reader change her bandages in the bathroom at work. it's intimate, and he's adorable and awkward, and it only fuels her terrible, terrible crush.

warnings/tags: fluff, talk/description of wound, brief talk of being stabbed (does not actually occur in this fic lol), reader wears a bra, spencer undoes said bra but not sexually, lots of suggestive humor and teasing, a TINY sprinkling of angst but not really, idiots in love

a/n: i'm picturing early seasons spencer and it is filling me with so much unbridled joy. I. LOVE. HIM. thank you for the request!! and lets not talk about how inconsistent my formatting for requests is pls and thanks!!

It’s not like you meant to bend down so quickly that your wound reopened—but here you are, suffering the consequences of your actions in the women’s bathroom at Quantico as you try to assess the injury before you re-bandage it. And your shoe is still untied. 

Unfortunately, the fact that you had quite literally been stabbed in the back last week makes it hard to reach said injury—especially when you’re at work and so can’t take off your shirt like you normally would. And all this struggling means it’s taking longer than it should, so now you’re focused on the wound and its scabby, wet edges and all the things it’s secreting rather than hurrying to give another statement of the entire event to Hotch since the first one had apparently been too sparse on the details. 

A knock sounds on the open door. Spencer calls your name. 

“You in there?”

The angle of your neck has your voice slightly strained as you call back, “yeah, what’s up? Is it Hotch?” you pause to hiss as you accidentally scratch at the wound with a nail. You don’t even want to know how much bacteria you just introduced to it. “Tell him I didn’t forget our meeting, I’ll be there in—”

“It’s not Hotch. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with your back? I know you said you were going to check on it, but you’ve been in there a while.”

You sigh, dropping your sore arm as you continue to hold up your shirt with the other and regarding the reflection of your back in the mirror. 

“Actually—could you come in here?”

There’s a pause. 

“You want me to come into the women’s restroom?”

“Yes, Spencer. It’s fine. There’s nobody else in here. I just… I need some help, I think.”

The last part is admitted quietly, with an air of defeat. To admit to needing help, is, by your standards, the same as failure. Spencer knows this, which is probably the only reason he puts aside his hesitations and shuffles uncertainly into the tiled room. If you’re asking for help, it’s because you really need it. 

“What do you need help with?” he asks, sweeping his gaze suspiciously around the lavatory as if you were lying about there not being any other women present and this whole thing might be a trap of some sort. 

“It’s gross, and you can totally say no.”

He raises his brows expectantly, before spotting the weeping wound on your back. Unconsciously he steps closer, leaning forward. It’s not your fault, and the gore is not specific to you—anyone’s body would react this way to being stabbed. But you still feel embarrassed by the close attention to such an ugly marring, which nobody besides you and your doctors has actually seen up close.

“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters. The expression on his face is irritatingly familiar—the drawn brows, tightened eyes, barely parted lips—but it takes a moment before you realize what it is. 

“Reid,” you complain. He’s still stooped over slightly to examine the wound, and looks up at you through dark lashes with those infuriatingly warm puppydog eyes.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me the way you look at a dead body on the slab.”

His nose scrunches.

Some might say it scrunches adorably. 

“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”

“Okay, well stop. It’s freaking me out.”

He pouts—actually pouts. Subtle, but bottom lip jutted out and all. It’s ridiculously endearing. 

“My face freaks you out?”

“Wh—no! That’s not what I said! You have—you have a great face! I didn’t mean—” 

You manage to claw yourself out of the hole you’re digging when you see the dopey smile growing on his face. 

Oh. He was fucking with you. 

He never used to do that. It’s unnerving to be the fucked with instead of the fucker for a change. Especially when it’s Spencer. 

“What did you need me for?” Spencer asks by way of peace offering. You close your eyes and sigh, attempting to collect your thoughts without his presence re-scrambling them.  

“Um—I just need you to put this bandage over it. I can’t reach without taking my shirt off.”

And now you’re forced to wonder if he’s thinking about you shirtless as much as you’re thinking about you shirtless.

“Yeah—don’t do that,” he says absentmindedly, stepping again closer to get a better look before turning to the nearest sink.

For some reason, this offends you. 

“Why not?”

Spencer pulls another face as he washes his hands—you love the constant flow of expressions he always seems so unconscious of. Even when they’re not pleasant and directed at you.  

“Are you asking me why shouldn’t you take your shirt off?” he clarifies. 

“I know why I shouldn’t take my shirt off, but I want to know why you think I shouldn’t take my shirt off.”

“Because we’re at work?” he observes astutely. You frown deeply at his completely logical reply. Spencer chuckles as he dries his hands and approaches once more, taking the square of gauze pre-lined with medical tape from your hand. “I mean, I can’t stop you. But it would be kind of a weird choice.”

“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”

Cool fingers meet the comparatively hot skin of your back—where everything is still sensitive because the wound wreaked havoc on your nerves there. You flinch slightly. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs gently. Though his touch is so incredibly light it doesn’t really hurt—it hurts much less than when you’re tending to the wound, anyway. It’s almost soothing. After a moment he continues, a bit louder. “And that is not what I was saying. But I am completely comfortable asserting that it would be weird for you to be shirtless at work.”

The gentle touches contrast with his teasing words and serve to disorient you as you’re shaken back in to your usual dynamic. Which is markedly more sarcastic. 

“Well—”

Before you have to think of something to say, Spencer interrupts you. 

“Your, um—I think your… brassiere… is in the way.”

As soon as he says it you burst out laughing. It echoes through the room. 

“My brassiere? Are you actually 70 years old?”

His brows knit even tighter and his face gets very pink very quickly. He can’t meet your eyes over your shoulder. 

“That’s what it’s called.”

“Spencer, you may be the first person to use that word since 1952. Say bra.”

“I don’t want to,” he complains. Your laughter only grows as your head tips back. 

“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”

“It’s—it’s too colloquial! I’m trying to be professional!”

“Call it a bra or I’m going to rub my dirty hands all over my back,” you threaten, adopting a poker face so he knows you mean business. His eyes widen immediately. 

“Oh my god! Bra! Do you want to introduce staph and meningitis and g—do not do that!”

“See? How hard was that?”

“I hate you,” he mumbles, face still flushed and adorable. “And you still have to take it off.”

“Excuse me?” you grin, pretending to be affronted because you know he didn’t mean it like that but it’s fun to pretend he did. Fun for you, of course. Not so much for him. He's utterly flustered by this point.

“Or at least undo it! It’s in the way.”

With a deeply bored sigh, you go to unclasp your bra—but as you go to do it your shirt drops down. You grimace, humor briefly forgotten as the fabric brushes the damaged skin. 

“I can’t—”

“Okay, just—I’ll do it,” Spencer says. “Just move your shirt again.”

So you do, watching his reflection as he works.

And you have not one joke to break the heavy silence with as you feel his knuckles gently pressing into the middle of your back, as he unclasps the bra with his characteristic tenderness and a surprising amount of agility. It’s quiet except for your pulse in your own ears as he carefully pushes it out of his way, holding it down with a hand to your rib cage and fingertips slipping just under the fabric of your shirt—unintentionally and certainly non-sexual, no doubt, but skimming under your heart in a way that still feels so intimate you’re realizing how touch-starved you are. 

“You do that often?” you find yourself asking, because you’re stupid, and you need to cool the tension before it chokes you, and you can’t help yourself even though you don’t actually want to know the answer. 

“I,” he begins, voice quiet as rustling paper, tongue darting over his lip and eyes narrowed. The sentence stalls as he focuses on placing the patch just so. “Do not think that is an appropriate workplace question.”

Something aches in the pit of your stomach. 

Something resembling jealousy. 

It was not the timid evasive linguistic maneuver of someone who is insecure about the thing they’re discussing. It was not the awkward fumbling no but I don’t want to tell you that which you were expecting from Spencer Reid. 

Nor is it an easy yes—an admission between friends. He doesn’t want to tell you. 

You swallow and try to act like yourself. 

“Yet here you are, in the woman’s restroom at our place of employment, undoing my bra. I think we’re past professionalism.”

“When you decontextualize it like that it sounds like something it’s not. This is professional, because I’m helping you with a wound you sustained on the job. I’m being a good colleague.”

Your lips twist into a smile he can’t see. 

“A great colleague would kiss it better.”

“It's almost like you want me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR," he says through a little smirk as he smooths the bandage over. Before you can snip back, he steamrolls over his own teasing—you’ve both been speaking in almost reverent tones since he started but his voice loses the sarcastic edge from a second before and reverts back to concerned and sweet. “Does that feel okay?”

You rotate your shoulders best you can without letting go of your shirt or flashing the good doctor to check if it feels secure.  

“It’s good. And hey—if I were going to sexually harass you I would do a lot better than that. You think that’s my best material? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I keep so many inappropriate comments to myself. You’d be shocked by some of the things I have almost said to you.”

He laughs, secures the band of your bra and begins fitting it to the clasp you’d had it on—and at that precise moment Emily walks in. 

“H—woah.”

“It’s—I’m—I was helping her!” Spencer panics, immediately removing his hands from you like his palms are burning and holding them up defensively. 

“Oh, you helped me alright,” you tease, pulling your shirt back into place. 

“Don’t say it like that!” And then, to Emily, “I was changing out her bandage!”

“Changing my bandage,” you emphasize, winking more than is advisable. 

“That’s—this is a hostile work environment! I feel unsafe!” Spencer almost yells, half laughs, as he scampers towards the door. “I’m going to HR!”

“Shut up! You love it!”

His laughter audibly travels farther away for several moments as he presumably goes back down the hallway to do his actual job. 

You have the stupidest grin on your face, but you wipe it off when you notice Emily staring. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away, moving toward a stall. “You’re just… you guys are funny.”

“What do you mean funny?” You demand, standing right outside her stall as she closes it. 

“Wh—I mean funny! Are you going to listen to me pee, you weirdo?”

You frown. 

She makes a good point. 

Unfortunately, giving Hotch a more detailed statement is just as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Despite how cheery you’ve tried to remain about the whole situation, despite the way you insisted that the wound was so shallow you didn’t need more than a few days off work, despite the jokes you make about forgetting it’s even there because it’s on your back—it’s hard not to remember exactly how the glass felt twisting under your skin, how you’d felt suddenly so hot and lightheaded and sick to your stomach and the way Morgan hollered because he didn’t know how deep it had gone after you crumpled quick from shock, when you’re asked to describe it all in excruciating detail. 

It only takes ten minutes, but they seem to drag on and on and by the time you’re leaving Hotch’s office you feel utterly drained. You hurry back to your desk, covertly wiping away moisture that you refuse to allow to become tears. Once seated, and having dodged sympathetic looks and avoided any do you want to talk about its, you allow yourself a few deep breaths with your eyes shut. 

When you open them, you realize there’s a fresh cup of your favorite tea on your desk, in the Snoopy mug the team is always fighting over. Now his little black nose is covered by a square of yellow paper. You’re already smiling as you peel away the sticky note and hold it closer. 

On it is an adorably odd smiley-face, and a note in familiar, messy looping scrawl. 

I would never report you to HR beautiful

That would be a stab in the back!

You snort loudly and clap a hand to your mouth—but you’ve already drawn the attention of almost everyone in the bullpen. 

When you turn to look at Spencer, he’s not looking back. Instead, his eyes are firmly trained on his computer screen. But he’s got his chin propped on his fist over the desk, and his knuckles are doing a poor job of concealing a giant self satisfied grin. He is the only person on the team who knows you well enough to make such a distasteful joke. And he also knows you well enough to know that it would make you feel so much better after your meeting with Hotch than all the well-meaning sincerity in the world ever could.

Funny. 

Maybe that is the right word for what you two are.