I’m in the emergency room being checked out for some extreme pain. They’re going over some medical history questions, and we come to the “Are you pregnant?” section.

Doctor: “Any chance you’re pregnant?”

Me: “Nope.”

Doctor: “Completely sure?”

Me: “I haven’t had sex in five years, my tubes are tied, and I have an IUD. If I’m pregnant at this point, it’s the will of God.”

Doctor: “…but are you sure?”

They ran a pregnancy test anyway. To nobody’s surprise, it came back negative.

I had been having stomach pains for a few days. At first, I thought it was something I ate, so I took some Pepto Bismol. On day three, my stomach was cramping so much I could barely stand. I called out of work and laid in bed wondering what I had eaten. I tried all kinds of stomach-coating medication, hot compress, warm bath, massage… but nothing was working.

By day five, I couldn’t even walk, so my husband drove me to the emergency room.

Me: “I’ve been having pains right here—” *gestures below my rib cage* “—for the past three or four days. It hurts so bad I can barely eat or move or even breathe. I’ve done Pepto, heating pads, hot baths, and massaging the area. Nothing has helped.”

Doctor #1: *Without even touching me* “It’s just PMS. Take some Midol and a heating pad, and you’ll be fine.”

Me: “I don’t think so. I’ve tried that, and it’s not the right time of the month. Also, my uterus is not right under my ribcage.”

Doctor #1: “Pain manifests in funny ways. You’re probably just having a heavy flow. You’re only twenty-six; your body wants a baby.”

Me: “Okay, I would like a female doctor.”

[Doctor #1] rolls his eyes and walks away. I sit in the room for six hours before a woman, [Doctor #2], comes in.

Doctor #2: “Hi. Having some cramps?”

Me: “Not the lady kind.”

I point to where the pain is and retell my tale.

Doctor #2: “Okay, let’s see what’s going on.”

She gives me an exam, pressing on various points in my stomach while we talk about how I had been treating the issue at home. When she gets to the part that hurts, I curl up.

Doctor #2: “Okay, honey. I am going to get you on some IV fluids and get some pain meds and a heating pad ordered. We’re going to do an ultrasound as soon as possible. I have some ideas, but I don’t want to jump into anything right now.”

Me: “Thank you.”

And they gave me the GOOD meds. I felt better almost immediately.

The ultrasound shortly thereafter revealed that I had a substantial bowel blockage putting pressure on the lower side of my stomach and pushing it up into my lungs. Two enemas and four days of laxatives later, I was back to normal and feeling QUITE thin.

After I recovered, I contacted the hospital and told them what [Doctor #1] told me and how he acted as if my uterus was my only body part worth considering. They told me an investigation would be opened, but I never heard anything else about it.

I am thankful that [Doctor #2] came along when she did and actually listened to my issues.

One week, I started suffering from stomach pain. I grew increasingly uncomfortable and felt weaker all week long. My parents let me stay home from school for the first couple of days, but then, they decided I was faking.

They dragged me to the doctor and demanded he tell me that I was faking.

The doctor examined me and ran some tests. He kept me overnight while the tests were run, to my parent’s objections. They were upset that he was “humoring” me.

Finally, when the test results came in, the doctor told my parents:

Doctor: “I can’t tell him he’s faking. He’s got stomach cancer.”

Clearly, I survived the cancer, but it was an unpleasantly close thing. I also don’t talk to my parents much anymore. They wonder why.

I’m a woman in my twenties. I’ve been having recurring joint pain and severe fatigue for quite a while. I brush it off for several months until I literally fall asleep at my desk at work.

Around this time, I have my yearly labs drawn for my primary care provider (PCP), and several numbers come back elevated. I Google what this means, and it says that those numbers mean inflammation somewhere in the body. I ask my PCP, a man in his fifties, about this at my yearly appointment a couple of weeks later.

PCP #1: “How did you know that those numbers mean inflammation?”

Me: “Google.”

PCP #1: “Why are you Googling things?”

Me: “I had to wait two weeks for this appointment, and I was curious. So, why are those labs so high?”

PCP #1: “You’re on birth control. That causes inflammation.”

Me: “I’ve been on birth control for years with no issues. Why would it be doing that now?”

PCP #1: “Your numbers aren’t that far out of range. Any other questions?”

Me: “Actually, yes. I’ve been having a lot of joint pain, and I’m tired all the time. I’m wondering if that’s related to my labs.”

PCP #1: “If you lost weight, you wouldn’t be in pain. Work out more.”

Me: “…excuse me? I walk on the treadmill almost every day for thirty minutes. I do yoga, too. It hurts too much to do anything else.”

I’m average weight for my height.

PCP #1: “Go outside and run. You’ll have more energy. If that doesn’t work, you probably have chronic fatigue syndrome.”

I walk out of that office wondering if I am imagining everything. I eventually move out of the area and get a new PCP, also a man in his fifties. It takes over a year for me to bring up my symptoms, as I am afraid of being blown off again. At this point, my labs and symptoms are significantly worse.

PCP #2: “So, your inflammatory labs are really out of range. Are you having any odd symptoms?”

Me: “I have a lot of joint pain, and I’m tired all the time.”

PCP #2: “Did you fall recently? Pull a muscle?”

Me: “No, and no.”

PCP #2: “Hmm. When did this start?”

Me: “Um… last year, maybe two years ago. It’s been a while.”

He drops his notepad and stares at me.

PCP #2: “YEARS?!”

Me: “My previous doctor didn’t think it was serious.”

He shook his head and started asking about the joint pain’s location and severity. He referred me to a rheumatologist, who ordered a ton of labs and imaging. I was diagnosed with psoriatic arthritis and started on medication immediately.

Related:
A Very Patient Patient

I have a degenerative autoimmune condition that causes a lot of pain. As a result, I don’t always notice injuries the way most would; I have walked on multiple fractures until unrelated scans found them. Long story short, I’ve got a pretty high pain tolerance. Despite this, I am often accused of being drug-seeking because I visit a lot of doctors and had a string of emergency room visits on record pre-diagnosis. 

I am about to have an operation to repair a badly damaged ankle. I am gowned and about to be wheeled into the operating room.

Doctor: “Okay, what pain medication do you want? Where am I sending this?”

Me: “Oh, it’s okay. I don’t want anything.”

I am planning to control my pain with over-the-counter medication and a certain plant that is legal in my state. This has always worked better for me.

Doctor: “Just tell me what pain medication you want so we can get on with this.”

Me: “I’m really okay. I’ll be fine with what I have at home.”

Doctor: *Visibly irritated* “We’re literally breaking your leg today. You need pain medication.”

I’m trying to be polite, but I’m getting annoyed.

Me: “No, I don’t, thank you. I don’t want narcotics. I don’t like the way they make me feel, they don’t really work for me, and I don’t want to be flagged as drug-seeking again.”

The doctor is clearly not listening at this point.

Doctor: “I’m putting you down for Percocet. We’ll get your pharmacy from your file.”

With that, she flounced off. The medication was filled. Initially, I just left it, but when I sent a friend to pick up an unrelated medication, she ended up grabbing it, as well. I took exactly one pill, which did nothing except hit me with side effects, and I flushed the rest. I was able to control my pain via my usual methods and am currently doing fantastic with my rebuilt ankle. 

Listen to your patients, doctors. You know more than we do about medical science, but we’re living in our own bodies, and sometimes we do know what’s best for us.