In July of 2013, I ended up in the emergency department of the hospital in Minnesota where I worked 20 years prior because my shunt suddenly went into failure while I was visiting on vacation.
My parents and I were waiting in the exam room for word that my transfer to the Mayo Clinic three hours away would begin (and as a side note, they turned me down and refused my transfer because they didn’t understand why I had a shunt or why I was experiencing these strange symptoms, the second time out of five turn-downs total from the Mayo over the course of this disease for being “too rare to diagnose or treat”). My mother suddenly perked up and said, “I think I hear Dr. X outside!” I asked her how she knew Dr. X, and she informed me that he had taken the initiative on her case when she ended up having double bypass surgery a few years prior.
She popped out to say hello to him. When she returned, I told her I also knew Dr. X, but for a very different reason. In 1995, I was still working at the hospital, and my good friend invited a bunch of random people from different departments to my 21st birthday. It was a Wednesday night and not many people came out. Three of us were out on the dance floor and I was well into my birthday shots. Suddenly, Dr. X appeared and gave me a kiss. I didn’t know who in the world he was (because I didn’t work in the ER), but when I found out I was smooched by a DOCTOR, I was thrilled.
Did I have a little hero worship going on? Quite possibly, yes.
These days, I have a very different take on dating doctors. I mean, I date them all of the time. The shine has worn off. Nearly every month I meet a new physician. In all, over the course of five and a half years, I have auditioned 44 doctors. In Phoenix I managed to acquire six of them on my care team. Here in Minnesota, I’ve only been able to keep two.
The first impression starts when I contact the front office staff for an appointment. How they treat me gives me somewhat of an indication of how the doctor is going to treat me. I realize that there have been some mismatches in those marriages – sometimes the doctors are very good but the office staff can’t be bothered, and sometimes it’s the reverse.
When I arrive for the appointment, you had better believe I judge the décor.
If the carpet is dirty and torn, if the walls are grimy, if the furniture looks like it’s from the 1980’s and there are greasy seat stains, my expectations immediately tank.
My experience confirms that a lack of care in the waiting area is a direct reflection of the lack of care for high-maintenance patients such as myself. The doctors in these offices generally don’t keep up with the latest and greatest research. Much of those appointments are spent with them appraising me with a quizzical look for all of five minutes while I list my symptoms, and then they tell me they can’t help me.
This is their date too. They can decide that I’m not a good match for them and their skills and resources.
Rejection sucks. There are times when it’s a mutual agreement. Other times it’s one-sided, but being on the receiving end of it stings. Sure, you can say there are other fish in the sea – or in my case, I can keep searching for my ever-elusive perfect doctor who snaps his or her fingers and says, “Ah ha! It’s ______!” but that doctor may be halfway around the world where my state-funded medical assistance doesn’t reach. I’m terrible at long-distance relationships anyway.
The two doctors I have kept have great bedside manners and their staff are friendly and efficient. Both are capable of having conversations with me instead of preaching at me, which is completely unnecessary because we speak the same (medical) language (thanks to my years in school when I was working towards my R.N. degree).
The gastrointestinal specialist I’m keeping is gentle and has a good sense of humor. When he recommended that I try edible peppermint oil to try to assist in calming my nerve pain from my intestines shifting and rejecting the drainage catheter of my shunt, I asked him if my bathroom visits would be minty fresh. He laughed and said that he wasn’t sure, but that I could certainly let him know.
Challenge accepted, Doc! I’ll see you on our next date when you biopsy my esophagus.
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About the Author: Patient Worthy Contributor, Chelsea. Keep an eye out for posts from her as she navigates the gnarly dating world, chronic illness and searches for a diagnosis and check out her blog, The Sick and The Dating.
