I NEEDED an endometrial biopsy. I was bleeding for months. Passing clots the size of my palm. Fainting at work. Iron levels in the basement. Doctor looked at my chart and said: “You’re only 27.” “Pain is normal for women.” “Have you tried losing weight?” “Sometimes women exaggerate cramps.” “What if this is just stress?” I said I can’t function. I can’t stand up without seeing stars. I’m scared. He said: “Let’s not jump to invasive procedures.” “What if you want kids soon?” “A biopsy can cause scarring.” “You don’t want to risk fertility over heavy periods.” Heavy periods. Not hemorrhaging. Not anemia. Not collapsing in the shower. Heavy periods. He offered birth control for the fourth time. I said, “I don’t care about preserving fertility. I care about not blacking out.” He paused. “Have you discussed that with your partner?” So I brought him. Doctor to him: “Are you okay if she can’t have children?” “You’re young. You might want a family.” “Would that be a dealbreaker?” Him: “She needs to stop bleeding. That’s the only family planning we’re discussing.” Suddenly the biopsy was scheduled. Pathology came back: precancerous cells. But sure. Let’s center hypothetical babies and imaginary men while a woman is actively deteriorating in front of you. Misogyny in medicine isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just asking a dying woman if a man might want kids someday.