I got dumped by my doctor yesterday. My endocrinologist to
be exact. I’ve been with the guy since 2004, and I’ve given him some of the
best years of my life. I don’t like the way he did it either. It was all too
reminiscent of the way a guy I’d dated way back in another lifetime scuttled
off. I called him. A woman answers the phone to clean up the mess. Phone
breakups are bad enough. But to have a proxy do the deed for you—well, as they
say where I grew up, that’s pure chicken shit.
There I was yesterday with my list of to-do’s. I’d waited
until the school year’s clutter of grades, goodbyes, speeches, and room
cleanings got done to do the things I needed to do for myself. (What’s fucking
new?) I made my mammogram appointment. Check. Dermatologist appointment for a
skin cancer screening. Check. Endocrinology appointment for the yearly check of
my prolactin levels and probable MRI. Not check. The conversation went like
this:
Receptionist: “Medical Specialties.”
Me: “Hello. My name is (blah blah
blah) and I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Nowheretobefound. I’m a
patient of his.” I efficiently offered up my date of birth and spelled my last
name.
Receptionist: “Dr. Nowheretobefound
is no longer in the clinic. He has retired. He has referred his patients to Dr.
Replacement. I can schedule you with him next week”
**gasp**
Me: “Dr. Nowheretobefound has
retired?”
Receptionist: (In a voice as
antiseptic as alcohol) “Yes, Dr. Replacement will now take his patients.”
Me: “Is Dr. Replacement an expert
in pituitary disease? I’m not interested in starting all over again with
somebody who is not an expert in that field.”
Receptionist: (Still saturating the
wound with alcohol) “Dr. Replacement is who Dr. Nowheretobefound has chosen for
his patients.”
Me: “Excuse me, but Dr. Replacement
is not who I’ve chosen for my doctor.
Sorry to be a self-advocate, but I don’t know this new doctor or his expertise.
I need a pituitary expert. Is he a pituitary
expert?”
Receptionist: (Alcohol is now
evaporating) Ma’am, there is a pituitary program at Harborview associated with
UW.
By now I’m overwhelmed and imagining only the Harborview
emergency room—the regional trauma center that daily bustles with drug
overdoses, car wrecks, and all the urban tragedies that I can generally ignore
in my whitey tighty island world.
Me: “Thanks, but I guess I need to
shop for a new doctor.”
I hit the end button on my phone and stare at it dumbly. I
felt like I needed what I couldn’t have: chocolate, wine, and Oreos. I wanted
to hear a cadre of best female friends tell me “honey, he was never good enough
for you!” I turned to my husband instead.
“He retired,” he stated for the record after hearing my side
of the phone conversation. I nodded. “Wow,” he said with that cautious but very
sympathetic tone he uses when he sees I’m on the verge of a meltdown. “I’m
sorry honey.”
“Shit,” I huffed as I plopped down to the computer and
started researching the pituitary specialists the Puget Sound. I got lucky in
my research and found what I think will be good care at the Swedish Pituitary
Center. When I called there, the intake receptionist took a great deal of time
with me and got much information in anticipation of an initial phone
appointment next week.
Of course, that appointment is dependent upon all of my
records arriving from the University of Washington and a referral from my primary care doctor. The records department
clerk at UW was very helpful, and put my request in immediately. My primary
care physician, however, has gatekeepers that could guard the president (and
would spend less money on hookers). It took repeated attempts to get through
the phone system because they were so busy. Then, when I explained that I just
needed a referral, they wanted me to schedule an appointment to get it. “Oh,
God, no,” I said, “there’s no doubt about my condition, I’ve had this tumor,
and neurosurgery for it, and it’s grown back. I just need a referral so I can
have an appointment after my endocrinologist retired. This is nothing new.
Please, just get this request to my doctor.” I will have to check tomorrow to
see if that message got through. I understand the need for protocols, I do. But
I don’t like feeling like an intruder on my own care.
Finally, I don’t like being passed from doctor to doctor
without so much as a postcard. How hard or expensive would it really be it
inform patients of a retirement or departure? I mean really. Do I look like a woman who just
hops into the office of any doctor I meet?
Hmm...sounds like the publishing industry. But glad you've got a good Doc on the line. I'm sending stellar vibes for those records to flash on over to Swedish. xoxo
ReplyDeleteThe publishing industry...ah yes. Had a bit of experience with that as well. But onward an bookward now!
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