“Lay down” he told me.
And I complied. What else could I
do? I lay there staring at the ceiling
not moving, still, hardly breathing, just willing it to be over soon.
My parents were right outside. Did they know what he did to me? But they sent me here, so what choice did I
have? If I ran out now and told them,
would they even believe me? And if they
did believe me, would they blame me?
I lay there
frozen. Maybe he wouldn’t do it this
time? But there was no escape. I felt him push down my pants, pull back the
elastic band of my panties and move his hand inside them to press against the
outside of my 7 year old vagina. And 8
year old vagina. And 9 year old vagina. Every year.
Without fail.
Even now…so many
years later I wonder if other pediatricians do that to other little girls? I don’t even know how to ask or who to
ask. How strange to be 57 and not able
to find out if what I went through was normal.
It certainly didn’t feel normal.
I still can’t imagine why he would have done it or what possible information
he would get from doing it. I didn’t
like getting weighed either, and there was a level of shame attached to that,
but those probing fingers inside my panties was a shame that was universes beyond the
pronouncement of the scale.
I still remember the horror of those visits. And I’d act like nothing happened. I never mentioned anything, he never
mentioned anything as if we had some sort of silent agreement making me
complicit. Or maybe it was normal for a doctor to do that? All I know is that I will never forget the
horror I felt. In a second I can imagine myself back in that body feeling
utterly helpless and trapped.
How much did those
early experiences form my approach to doctors and medical appointments? I know that I’ve tried to avoid doctors my
entire life. Not by making sure I was
always making the healthiest choices, just by canceling and postponing
appointments until emergencies drove me into their offices desperate for
relief, and feeling as if I literally had no other place to turn.
One of the biggest
changes I’ve had to make during the past two years is how I see and seek
medical attention. It goes against
everything I feel inside my soul, but I make appointments for check-ups, have
regularly scheduled mammograms, pap smears, colonoscopies, dental check-ups,
and dermatology appointments. I actually
voluntarily seek out preventive
medical care on a regular basis. Dental
cleanings, mammograms, visits to my dermatologist every 8 weeks, the podiatrist
every few months, regular check-ins with my primary, and whatever else comes
up. Which means that on average, I am going to some sort of a medical
appointment at least a couple of times a month. And in order to face those
appointments I’ve had to completely transform the way I behaved, because as
surely as night falls, the medical profession wasn’t going to change the way
they behaved towards me.
Like the time I had blinding headaches, was referred for an
MRI and saw a neurologist for the results.
I walked into her office, sat down and she looked at me from behind her
desk, stared at me for a moment and then said “you know you really should lose
weight." Or like all the times that
various medical providers have seen my psoriasis and recoiled in shock and
ignorance…saying “what on earth is wrong with your skin?" Or how about the emergency room doctor who
saw my infected toe and told me to soak it while the podiatrist two days later
told me to avoid getting it wet and seal it in plastic while showering. Or like the gastroenterologist who diagnosed
and dismissed my pain as “stress because my mother died." Oh I could tell you so many stories…
But back to that time a month after the diabetes
diagnosis. One of my first hurdles to
overcome was figuring out what to do about my primary care doctor. A month after the hospital stay, diabetes
diagnosis and cancer scare, I hadn’t heard anything from him. I was stunned that he had made no attempt to
reach me – how does a doctor ignore one of his patents going through that much
medical trauma? But it was even more
shocking to digest the realization that I should have been diagnosed with
diabetes years earlier.
I’ve had blood tests
periodically for years since the medication I take for my psoriatic arthritis
requires it. Each time a blood glucose level was
included. He began telling me that my blood glucose level was slightly high. Probably a year
prior to the official diagnosis I remember him saying that it was 176 and he
looked slightly troubled. He said,
“we’ll have to keep an eye on that." And
I left the office relieved, feeling like I’d had a close call but escaped
unscathed.
What I escaped was a
chance to save my life. What I escaped
was someone caring enough about my health to let me know about the damage being
done to my body, my life expectancy and my future health and illness. What I escaped was the chance to prevent
numbness developing in my feet because of untreated high sugar levels. What I escaped was the truth.
Why didn’t he take
that number seriously? 176 is
diabetes. No two ways about it. There is no justification or rationalization
that makes it okay to ignore that. He
didn’t ask me to test it myself, he didn’t order an A1C, he didn’t order a
follow up test, he did nothing but murmur... "yeah, we should keep an eye on
that.”
Now thatyou know a little of my history, maybe you can understand
how the little girl inside me wanted nothing more than to escape that table before
he hurt me. But why did he send me away?
What made him want to ignore the facts staring him in the face? Not wanting to give me bad news? I can’t imagine and I guess I will never
understand it or make sense of it or feel okay about it.
So a month after the
diagnosis I had to make a choice about whether to find a new doctor or
not. My friends and family were
unilaterally opposed to me even going back and seeing him at all. They all wanted me to get a new doctor. But I’d always liked my doctor, he was calm
and sensitive and listened carefully to me.
Still, I didn’t want to be a fool…I wasn’t looking for a friend, I
wanted a medical expert who could be relied upon to interpret test results and
guide me to the best health possible. I
struggled with what to do. Not wanting
go through the anxiety and stress of finding, meeting and establishing a
relationship with a new doctor and, frankly, not feeling particularly optimistic
that I would find anyone better, I made the difficult decision to make an appointment
with him and confront him.
I spent a while with my therapist preparing for the
appointment. After much discussion and
self-examination, I came to view my health as a company. My doctor(s) were employees – consultants…but
I was the CEO of my own body. They could
make recommendations, give expert advice, but it was up to me to make choices
and determine whether or not they were competent enough in their
positions. And if not, they’d be
fired. What a profound reversal of
attitude was required for me to do that.
All of this might seem so common sense for someone else, but for me it
was nothing short of the ultimate anti-authoritarian civil disobedience.
And so I confronted
my doctor. It was absolutely a test of
my new fortitude and attitude. To say
change isn’t easy is an understatement, and at least a dozen times before the
appointment I went to pick up the phone to cancel. But I didn’t.
My heart was pounding and blood pressure through the roof as
I waited for him in the exam room. When
he arrived I asked him to give me 5 minutes to just listen to what I had to
say. I explained that it was difficult
for me to tell him what I needed to and I needed him to just hear me out. Then I went through my story and my
concerns. I finished by making sure he
understood that I was fighting for my life and needed a doctor who would fight
for me and with me – not someone who would ignore red flags for some
inexplicable reason.
He listened and he
did something surprising. He actually
apologized. In this day of lawsuits and
paranoia, he actually apologized. He
talked for a while about the situation, but essentially thanked me for speaking
up, told me how brave he thought I was, said he’d wish to be part of my fight
for health, and said the choice was entirely up to me. He said he wouldn’t blame me for being angry
or upset or for choosing not to return.
I told him that I would give it another try.
And in that moment I meant it. Another try – not a free pass. If things didn’t seem different, if he wasn’t
engaged in my care I’d go elsewhere. Of
course the days of leaning on one doctor were over for me. And when it came to test results, “fine” was
no longer acceptable…I wanted numbers, normal ranges and comparisons to prior
tests.
And so it’s been. Each
time I have a doctor’s appointment I have to steel myself. When I need to find a new doctor for whatever
reason I steel myself. I finally wrote a
proclamaton that I read before going to every single doctor's visit from
now on. Designed to shore me up when
facing someone new, designed to remind me that I am the consumer and not the
victim, and designed to remind me that it will never again be like it was
before. I am not a child anymore and I
won’t lie still and take it. I called it
my health care proclamation and made a copy to bring with me to all future
medical appointments.
I am in charge of my body and I decide when
to seek advice and what to accept. I
have a right to have my questions answered and problems explained so that I can
understand why something is being recommended.
I can’t stop doctors from being controlling or threatening or attempting
to market to or intimidate or judge me…but I can refuse to be controlled,
refuse to be broken by threats, and refuse to purchase what they are
selling. I am an expert on my own body
in a way no one else can ever be. I have
great judgment and intuition about what is helping me or hurting me. I have the right to refuse treatment, get
second and third and fourth opinions, and determine the best provider match for
myself. I claim the right to seek the
kind of care that makes me feel affirmed, listened to, and helped to get
stronger and healthier, and intend to be relentless in my search to find and
demand that level of care.
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