Munchen for a reason

During a recent hospitalization, a physician arrogantly strolls into my patient room and proclaims, "I know all about your medical case. I read through all your medical records and know your doctor." I am a little taken aback by this man's boldness. How could anyone read through years and years of medical history? Of course, I knew he could not. Furthermore, I have only just started visiting this hospital in the last 18 months. And even in this short timeframe, I have been a patient at six other hospitals.

Immediately, the clinician tells me my bacterial respiratory infection is only a virus. I must have picked up a virus someplace. Viral infections are extremely common. My mom interjects, "But she has been sick with this infection since AUGUST!!! Does a viral infection last six months!?" My mom continues badgering the doctor during the entire interaction as he makes erroneous observation after erroneous observation. Finally, the physician tells me he is dropping me from the pulmonology service. The medical team will follow my case.

After discharge, I read on my notes that this doctor questioned my mitochondrial disease diagnosis and believed I had Munchausen Syndrome. Additionally, he did not think I needed to use a ventilator to breathe. I was flabbergasted to read his comments! Really!? Munchausen Syndrome. I am pretending to be sick; I am making up my respiratory muscle weakness!? I have faked my carbon dioxide levels to be sky high. Wow, I must have some superhuman strength to be able to tell my body to not get rid of carbon dioxide and to retain this poisonous gas in body until I am nearly at the brink of death.

I sigh and want to cry. If only this doctor knew how much I hate being a patient. If only this physician understood how agonizing it is to attend doctor's appointments or go to the emergency department. I avoid medicine. I avoid medicine to the point where I have nearly died because I did not seek medical attention.

Whenever I enter the emergency department, I have to fight with all my might to not run for the nearest exit. I often clutch my ventilator and bed rail to physically prevent myself from bolting out the door. I am grateful doctors often sense my anxiety and give me sedatives to calm my nerves. Although the medicines often make me very sleepy and cause hallucinations, many times I prefer this option than having to endure the hours and hours of stress during my emergency department visit. How could anyone enjoy being poked and prodded and asked endless questions from nurses and doctors? How could anyone want to spend precious hours of his life stuck in these windowless rooms of chaos?

It seems when medical professionals don’t know what’s wrong with you, they cast you off to the psychiatric world of medicine. It’s easier to proclaim you are crazy than to admit they lack the medical knowledge to treat you.