In October of 2016, I sat in an endocrinologist’s office for the very first time. After nearly two months of waiting in fear, I was finally taken off of a doctor’s wait list.
“Finally,” I thought, “I will be able to get the care I need.”
Unlike the visit at the gynecologist–where I was first diagnosed–I did not feel vulnerable (and quite literally, naked). I had the information I needed to make educated decisions. I had a diagnosis and several hours of searching Dr. Google under my belt. I had questions, and I was ready to have them answered. I was ready to start treatment. I sat with a list of questions on a small, red notebook and a pen in my hand. After the initial pleasantries, she took out my chart. Scanning it, she said,
” I know the pill you need. It may cause neuropathy, but you’ll probably be fine. Take this pill,” she said while writing feverishly on a prescription pad, “and cut it in half. Take one half in the morning and one in the evening. You’ll be fine.” Before I was able to ask any questions, I was ushered out of the examination room, where I was asked to submit my co-pay and be on my way. It happened so quickly, I did not object. I signed my check, opened my purse, and placed my notebook inside. I guess I will just have to be a little more assertive next time.
The next week was typical. I did not experience any pain, and took every medication as instructed. The second week on the medication, I began to feel pain in my hands, arms, and neck. My body ached, but I wrote the symptoms off as allergies and did not complain. One night, I began to hurt so much that I could not sit comfortably in a chair. I was home, and decided to go to bed for the night. After an hour or so, Kylar came to check on me. As I spoke to him, my eyes could not focus and fluttered around. When he asked me to sit up, I could not get out of bed. Everything hurt. We decided that I would call the doctor first thing in the morning.
Even now, it is difficult to reflect on how I felt while on this medication. I did not realize just how sick I was.
We called the doctor, and after leaving several voicemails, her receptionist finally called us back. The doctor told me to stop taking the medication for two days, then begin taking it again as normal. I was to see her the next week, so I blindly followed her advice.
It didn’t help.
The next week, I described to her the aching pain in my arms and hands. She looked at me as if I had grown a third eye, and mumbled a response about how that side effect is rare. I asked about other options for medications, and she grew quiet. She narrowed her eyes at me, and said, “There’s only one other one, and it will definitely make you sick. It makes everyone throw up.”
Two days later, while at work, I was carrying a stack of client charts to my desk. I was aching, but was able to push through it for the sake of finishing my work. Before I was in my office, my hands grew numb and I dropped the charts on the ground. The binders opened, and paper was all over the floor. I was mortified. Not only were confidential, organized binders open in the middle of the day hab center, but my hands had suddenly stopped working. I could move them, but could not grip the charts to pick them back up. After asking for assistance, I went to my office and closed the door. I sat at my desk with my head in my hands, sobbing. What was going on?
That afternoon, I called my doctor again. I left a detailed voicemail, and received a call two days later from her receptionist. I was instructed to “take a break” from the medication, and begin taking it again three days later. That evening, I explained to Kylar what the receptionist had said. I was too exhausted to be offered the same, ineffective advice. Kylar’s face showed frustration.
“How could they do this to you? It didn’t work the last time they tried it. What’s the point? Why give you false hope?”
The next time I saw her, I pleaded with her to prescribe me a different medication. I had spent several days in bed, unable to move. I could barely type on a keyboard, and it was beginning to effect my work performance. Still, she was insistent that I continue on the medication that was causing me so much pain.
“Are you sure this is pain you are feeling? I just don’t think that that prescription should be causing you so much pain. Just take it.”
I went home in tears.
That night, the pain was worse than ever before. Kylar called the doctor on my behalf, and we debated on if we should go to the emergency room. He left a message for the doctor, and we decided against the ER. Eventually, I was able to make an emergency appointment with my endocrinologist, and per my husband’s request, we changed to a different medication. The doctor was reluctant and warned me about the possible side effects as she scribbled her signature on her prescription pad.
I never experienced any side effects on the new prescription.
Within two weeks of taking the new medication, my symptoms were gone. I had my life back. Whenever I became pregnant, my OBGYN suggested that I go to a different endocrinologist that she had experience working with. She trusted him. I had heard wonderful things about him, but his wait list was almost a year long. She forced me in, and I was able to see him as a patient. He listened carefully to my concerns, and included me in every step of the treatment plan. At one point during the meeting, he asked me if I had tried any other medications to help with my tumor. I said yes, and shyly told him about the terrible symptoms I had experienced. He nodded before saying,
“I’ve heard of that happening. I’ve had quite a few patients say that it caused them pain. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
Again, I left the office crying. Finally, a medical professional not only understood, but affirmed the pain I was feeling. I felt relieved.
After researching, I found that I was not alone in my experience. Women all over the world are in pain, and doctors are writing their feelings off as a weakness, or as “hormones”. I have personally spoken with several women who were made to think that they were “crazy”, or “delusional” for expressing their pain to their physicians.
I wish I had a solution. I wish I had an easy way out. It is terrible that my doctor did not take me seriously until my husband intervened. Though I am grateful that he is my advocate in times of need, I should not need a man to tell a doctor I am in pain before I am believed. There is a gap of care for women, and until it is recognized, nothing will change. That being said, my questions are this:
- Have you or someone you loved ever been “dismissed” at a doctor’s office for being in pain?
- What do we do to change it?
Sincerely,
Sarah E.B. Christison
A Little Bit Feminist
OK Maybe a Lot Feminist
She Will Call Me Mom 