“Was I right about the doctor?” the middle-aged receptionist asked cheerfully as I emerged from the examination room and waited for my next appointment.
“He’s very good,” I agreed. I had hesitated to see one more specialist after a history of dead ends trying to get a diagnosis for what was clearly something wrong with my body. I shared my concerns when she called to set up the appointment, and she reassured me this doctor was different: caring and thorough. He was both things.
“I know what you mean, though, about being frustrated with doctors.”
“I have been trying to explain it to my husband,” I told her. “It’s different for women than men. I was told by one doctor that I was just oversensitive and by another that there was nothing wrong me, just because he couldn’t find anything. It’s humiliating.”
A woman in a nearby examination room stuck her head out. Roughly my age, she nodded in encouragement.
“I really saw it when my husband got ill. Doctors were all over him, ordering tests, checking up on him with follow ups. No one questioned his concerns. We women are not taken seriously.”
The examination room lady gave me a thumbs up.
“Well, this guy is different,” the receptionist repeated. “He’ll get to the bottom of what’s going on.”
I hope so, I thought to myself all the way home. I could use some light at the end of this tunnel.
Writer, avid reader, former educator, and proud grandmother, currently experiencing life through the lens of ME/CFS. Words are, and always have been, a lifeline. Some of the best adventures, I'm discovering, take place in the imagination.