Special for the Wrong Reasons

Last time I was in emergency at the hospital I was told I was special. I smiled despite how wretched I felt and thanked the doctor. First he looked at me like I didn’t understand and then he explained I was special, but for all the wrong reasons.

That’s when I grinned … and explained.

My chronic disease has been called many things by many people: complicated, inconvenient, deadly, but never special. I understood in that moment the doctor was concerned about treating my symptoms appropriately given the nature of my illness, the physical state I found myself in, and the medications I take to manage my health.

I got what he meant … and it made me feel safe … that’s why I smiled.

He wasn’t being glib, sarcastic, patronizing, or dismissive. He was telling me he wanted to get this right. For once, it wasn’t just me that felt pressured to get the treatment right.

You know, that isn’t a fair statement. There are other times when I feel the person taking care of me is in it with me. It was just something about this doctor that stood out and that’s what’s been in my head for a couple weeks now. I can’t be the only one that wants and needs to feel and know their healthcare team is in it with them. Not just that they care: it’s part of who they are … a calling.

Perhaps it was the way he took his time asking me questions; answering mine. Perhaps it was the way he looked me in the eye and never cut me off. Or, perhaps it was the way he gave me a hand getting up from the table after the examination, making certain I found my footing before he continued speaking.

Patience. Understanding. Validation.

There was such intense relief feeling like I was going to get to the bottom of what was wrong with me … that I wasn’t alone … that the pain would not be for nothing. When he told me they were going to give me something for the pain I tried to tell him it was much more manageable now that I felt I was being listened to, but he shook his head. I’m not one to take pain-killers I assured him. Again, he shook his head.

He knew better than I that it would be some time before the infections would be cured and that the pain simply wasn’t necessary. He couldn’t make it all better, but he could give me some relief so I could continue to be strong … to give me some dignity in my pain.

I felt like crying and this time it wasn’t because of the pain.

I felt like he saw me … that’s how I know he cared.

Knowing he cared allowed me to close my eyes and relax.

Much of what that doctor did was no different than any other encounter I’ve had and yet it sticks in my mind. He took no more time than any of the other doctors that saw me that visit or any other. I guess the time he took seemed like mine … not just the time until he saw someone else.

Like I said … he saw me …

I couldn’t ask for better care, but I would like to know why that isn’t the care patients receive every visit.

 

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