The Wrong Doctor, The Right Process
Amid a flare at the dinner table, I shared my story with them attempting to hide my pain. “I just don’t understand why these doctors can’t figure me out,” I expressed, prudently nibbling on a piece of shrimp–a common practice for IBS sufferers who are trying to look respectful in meal-time social settings. My intestines had been in flames all day. But then the pain suddenly subsided when the father said, “Sabrina, I know a doctor who could potentially help you. He operated on both me and my son. I trust him, I promise he is incredible. Let me give you his contact.” I pulled my phone from under my thigh and handed it to him, “Thank you, please do,” with a gracious smile.
With each resource I obtain, I cannot be more appreciative. I cannot be more appreciative of the spontaneous connections I make through family and friends to mutual ones. I was able to schedule an appointment within a month, a huge win compared to the four and six months I had waited for others previously. Indeed, referrals from a doctor’s close friend go a long way, but they aren’t always the right ones.
****
Despite all the positive feedback I had heard about this doctor, I walked into his clinic that Friday morning skeptical that he would be understanding of my condition. The pattern of protocol, slim questioning, and dismissal was one I had endured for far too long; by this point, I was used to it. Appointment after appointment, the flickering spark of hope that once resided within me was dying out. But I had one last spark left: Maybe– just maybe– this will be the right doctor. And right here, before I begin to share this story with you, I’m going to tell you that he was not.
We started with the nurse’s usual height, weight, and blood pressure checks. Within a short seven minutes, a tan, tall and lean doctor entered the room. He introduced himself with a firm handshake, his face radiating warmth.
He stationed himself on the stool underneath his iconic whiteboard (whose iconicness will soon be explained): “I’ve read through all your records, Sabrina. Tell me what’s going on, it seems like this has been going on for a long time, and I want to hear your story,” he invited compassionately, leaning his upper body toward me. A sense of validation rushed through me–never had a doctor affirmed that they had actually READ my records and told me what they had gathered from them; never had a doctor WANTED to hear my story. I felt safe to share without being dismissed, attacked, and let back off the hook. I no longer wanted to return to swimming in my hole of hopelessness, back to lurking in my dark depths for a temporary remedy.
