It was sudden, debilitating pain that would come out of the blue. It just kept getting worse. Eventually, I ended up in hospital.
The emergency room doctor sent me home with no leads on the cause of my pain. He told me to follow up with my primary care physician, and so I made an appointment.
As I sat in my lovely exam gown waiting, my mind went to dark places about what this pain could possibly be. “I really hope the doctor will have some thoughts on this,” I thought. “I hope he’ll be able to reassure me somehow.”
He didn’t. Instead, he asked me two questions and mumbled something while scribbling on his prescription pad. He shoved the paper in my face and told me to pick it up at the pharmacy.
Before I had time to decipher the handwriting, he was gone. Securing the back of my gown with one hand, I jumped off the exam table and chased him down the hallway.
I don’t embarrass easily, so I didn’t care that I was running around in a paper-thin gown while other patients gave me the side eye.
“I’m not done, I have questions” I said. Visibly annoyed, he followed me back into the exam room.
I hopped back onto the table while still holding my gown closed, impressed with my own acrobatic abilities. But I was even more impressed with my boldness. Where had it come from?
I was taught that doctors are powerful and mighty. They shouldn’t be questioned, only readily and blindly trusted.
Yet, here I was, demanding he take the time to answer my questions.
“What are the side effects?” I asked.
“There are very few. This is a very common medication for stomach upset.”
“Stomach upset? I’m having sharp pains. And they’re not going away.”
“You’ll be fine. Just take the medication as prescribed.”
“But what do you think is causing it?”
“Take the medicine and if it doesn’t work, call us.”
“Do you need to do any tests?”
“Tests?” he said. “We don’t need to do any tests. It’s probably just gas.”
This was useless. I’ve made plenty of excuses for doctors like him before: he’s busy, he’s stressed, maybe it’s the nature of the job.
The truth was, he just didn’t care.
At home, I began to read the little pamphlet inside the box of medication. Did it really state that caution should be taken with Asian patients due to higher risk of side effects?
I made an appointment with a new doctor. A woman. By now, the pain was worse and more frequent. I had done some research on my symptoms and was starting to think it it lined up with some form of dietary sensitivity. There was a pretty clear pattern and I’d been taking detailed notes.
The doctor was an older woman with a commanding presence. “She’ll listen,” I thought. “She’s a woman.”
Instead, she dismissed everything I shared and everything I asked. She attributed the skin breakouts around my elbows to a type of spider bite.
“So you think it’s a coincidence that I have these breakouts every time I eat bread?” I asked. She actually rolled her eyes. Finally, she agreed to test for celiac disease, saying it was nearly impossible that I had it.
The test was negative. I started to feel like a hypochondriac. Was I making these symptoms up?
In my appointment with a third doctor, she shook my hand warmly. But she scrunched up her eyebrows as I explained my symptoms and gluten theory. “Here it comes,” I thought. “She’s going to tell me I’m imagining this.”
The doctor scooted closer to me and said, “You know, there is a test for celiac disease but not gluten sensitivity. It sounds possible that your body is reacting negatively.” She paused, and then said, “My goodness, it must’ve been frustrating dealing with this.”
My mouth dropped open. She went on to share next steps and review possible treatment options. She even asked me about my thoughts on my symptoms. I walked out feeling informed and validated.
Listening is one of the most healing forms of medicine.
To know we’re not alone is a powerful form of treatment. Hear us. Believe us. Put aside your stethoscopes for a moment and listen with your hearts.