Introductions
From now on, when I meet someone and I am not in the mood
for bullshit, I will lie topless on a table with lubricant all over my
chest. That’s how I met my Radiologist,
Dr. Lomax. I have never actually met a
radiologist before. I’ve worked in the
field for a long time. And I’ve NEVER met one.
I kind of assumed that
radiologists were mythical creatures who sat in dark rooms and waited for
images of the inside of the human body to pop up on the wall, then dictated
their findings to into a microphone and, suddenly, three or four days later, a
radiology report showed up on the fax machine.
That or they were hiding from malpractice suits. After all, radiologists are number ONE on the
list of medical specialists sued in malpractice claims. Number one.
I’d hide from that, too.
Anyway, I was laying there on that sterile table with my
boobs hanging out when Dr. Lomax walked in.
The radiology technician had just finished shooting no less than 40
images of my breasts when she said,” I’m
going to get the doctor.” You never want
to hear that when you finish with a mammogram and an ultrasound. What you want to hear is “Call your doctor in
three days. She’ll have the results by
then.” But because of all the anxiety, and the fact
that I didn’t believe that radiologists actually existed, I didn’t bother to
sit up or, for that matter, cover up.
Then he walked in. I looked at
him and he offered me his right hand. He
said “Hi Angela. My name is Scott. I’m one of the radiologists on staff
here. I’m just going to take a look at
what we’re doing. Is that OK?” I didn’t even shake his hand. I was naked from the waist up on an exam
table. All I said was “Look Doc, this
has been the most excruciating month and a half in my entire life. I just want to finish up and go back to work.” So, he grabbed that ultrasound wand did his
job. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t look at the monitor. I just held my breath and prayed for it to be
over. Finally, he said, “Ok. Look up here.
Do you see that? It’s a
cyst. You have fibro-cystic
condition. It’s not a disease.” Finally I breathed. Then he said, “Two of them are what we call ‘complicated,’
because they have ruptured, but they aren’t actually complicated. We’ll check it with an ultrasound in six
months to put your mind at ease. Or we
can biopsy it right now, if it’ll make you sleep better tonight. “ I didn’t have any words. Did a doctor, a radiologist even, just tell
me how it is without even batting an eye?
No bullshit. No pretense. No malpractice concerns??? Huh. Is it possible this guy’s legit?
IT’S NOT CANCER!!!!!!
That’s what I was thinking as I forked over the $400 for the
mammogram and the ultrasound. But at
that moment it was worth it. And as I
drove, a little too fast, back to work, that’s I’ll I could think. I knew it wasn’t cancer. At least, I wanted to think it wasn’t
cancer. Because I do have a family
history, and that makes me high risk. On
the other hand, though, I’m young and small breasted. I was probably OK. But the statistics show that it does not
MATTER what your age or cup size is. We
are all at risk. Anyway, I drove back to
work, finally breathing without hyperventilating. The first stop I made was to the schoolhouse
to see my besties. I had to tell
them. And when I say I had to tell them,
I had to tell everyone. So, as I walked
down the hallway, I stuck my head in every door and I screamed “IT’S NOT
CANCER!!!!” I didn’t have to yell, they
were all sitting less than five feet away from me. Everyone came out of their offices and hugged
me and I started talking. I talked about
the experience. I talked about the pain. I talked about the embarrassment of not having
health insurance. And the discrimination
that comes with being uninsured. And
they all listened as I talked. Because
they are well insured and it was an eye opener that someone they know, love and
work with doesn’t have health insurance. And I felt accomplished because I had
an audience. And I felt like a
warrior.
Broken
Then I talked to one of my nearest and dearest sisters on
the other coast. One of those women who
have been with me every second of the last six weeks…no, scratch that…one of
those women who have been with me every second of my whole life. And she recently had a similar
experience. Only she was insured. So she didn’t have to fight for a
mammogram. She didn’t have to struggle
for a doctor to take her case. She didn’t
have to wait for results from her biopsy.
She got it all. And she took it on
the “good” advice from her respected health care professionals that slicing
into her breast was the best treatment plan.
So, instead of terrifying a radiology tech into talking a radiologist
out of his hole to explain to circumstances of a fibro-cystic condition, she
was made to believe that the best possible treatment was $6,000 worth of procedures. At the expense of her body.
So, somebody. Please
tell me that the system isn’t broken.
Somebody tell me that the weeks of heartache and humiliation I spent only
to fork out five hundred dollars, start to finish, to have a mystical image
reader walk into a room and tell the truth about my condition is Ok. On the other hand, tell me why my friend who
didn’t have to pay a dime out of pocket for six thousand dollars’ worth of diagnostics
had to forego a part of her BODY, her identity to get the same results. System’s not broken though, right?
I don’t think we’re
done here
I know this isn’t a very enticing threat, but I promise you,
this conversation is NOT over. For tonight,
I will take solace in a good outcome. I
will revel in the fact that I didn’t lay down for this. I will be grateful for an honest doctor. I might even sleep more than two hours. But I will not forget how humbling the
experience has been. I will not forget
the people who stood by me. And I won’t
forget to remind you how the system is busted.
Because inner peas requires a little spunk.
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