Friday, April 27, 2007
Yesterday I risked trying a new “family” doctor. I’ve wanted to change doctors, but until yesterday, I stuck out a relationship that was becoming more than uncomfortable. It began seven years ago when I moved here and started seeing a specialist for a persistently painful problem (I don’t want to be too specific here). He fixed me right up, and also offered to also act as my internist because I had no insurance and couldn’t get anyone else. I was deeply grateful.
It worked out for a long time, as long as my health was good. Aside from annual blood work for a stable condition, I rarely got sick. There were many reasons why I stayed. He kindly did not charge me much, even when dependably effective in his pricy specialty. He’d see me the same day I’d call. His office was five minutes away. And when I called several doctors recommended by my friends, looking for a better fit, none would take a patient without insurance.
But when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, things changed: I can’t remember a kind word from him after that. We became more and more irritated with one another. He rarely let me finish a sentence, which drove me crazy, and my resistance and sensitivity to preventative drugs drove him crazy. He felt I didn’t listen to him, and I felt he didn’t listen to me. It was a deeply dysfunctional relationship. Perhaps he wanted me to leave but didn’t have the heart to kick me out.
But now I was accepted into an excellent breast cancer program. Again, I made calls, but again, no luck—no one would accept its insurance.
So I just kept seeing him. Each visit was worse and I began leaving his office in tears. Finally, in January, I turned sixty-five, and went on Medicare. This time, on just my second call, I found a doctor.
I waited until yesterday—three months—for my first appointment. I knew nothing about this doctor except that she came recommended by a nurse I really like. When I entered her office, my blood pressure, taken by her pleasant nurse, was 148/90. Yikes.
Finally, I met her: She was warm but professional, unhurrried, and thorough. She did not interrupt me. She made several helpful suggestions, presenting them as “something for you to consider.” I found her extraordinarily calming. When she re-took my blood pressure, it was normal: 123/70.
And I got the first full, head-to-toe physical exam I’d had since I moved here. Isn’t that odd? Seven years, two surgeries, and five doctors without a physical? I’m happy to say that I’m fine. Everything checked out. There’s the blood work to be done, but I’m not worried about that. I’m just happy that I persisted.
It worked out for a long time, as long as my health was good. Aside from annual blood work for a stable condition, I rarely got sick. There were many reasons why I stayed. He kindly did not charge me much, even when dependably effective in his pricy specialty. He’d see me the same day I’d call. His office was five minutes away. And when I called several doctors recommended by my friends, looking for a better fit, none would take a patient without insurance.
But when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, things changed: I can’t remember a kind word from him after that. We became more and more irritated with one another. He rarely let me finish a sentence, which drove me crazy, and my resistance and sensitivity to preventative drugs drove him crazy. He felt I didn’t listen to him, and I felt he didn’t listen to me. It was a deeply dysfunctional relationship. Perhaps he wanted me to leave but didn’t have the heart to kick me out.
But now I was accepted into an excellent breast cancer program. Again, I made calls, but again, no luck—no one would accept its insurance.
So I just kept seeing him. Each visit was worse and I began leaving his office in tears. Finally, in January, I turned sixty-five, and went on Medicare. This time, on just my second call, I found a doctor.
I waited until yesterday—three months—for my first appointment. I knew nothing about this doctor except that she came recommended by a nurse I really like. When I entered her office, my blood pressure, taken by her pleasant nurse, was 148/90. Yikes.
Finally, I met her: She was warm but professional, unhurrried, and thorough. She did not interrupt me. She made several helpful suggestions, presenting them as “something for you to consider.” I found her extraordinarily calming. When she re-took my blood pressure, it was normal: 123/70.
And I got the first full, head-to-toe physical exam I’d had since I moved here. Isn’t that odd? Seven years, two surgeries, and five doctors without a physical? I’m happy to say that I’m fine. Everything checked out. There’s the blood work to be done, but I’m not worried about that. I’m just happy that I persisted.
