Page 149 of Fighting Chance
Like my senior prom, because I suddenly became borderline comatose. The water park field trip because I couldn’t stop vomiting. Bella’s fifteenth birthday. I couldn’t put balloons on her locker like I had planned because I physically couldn’t walk. My bones wouldn’t stop aching, making me feel like I was ninety-eight, not fifteen.
Memory after memory of a childhood filled with exciting plans only to be forced to cancel bombards my mind to the point my chest begins to get uncomfortably tight.
“Layla Carson?” a middle-aged man asks from the end of the hall.
Sighing, I stand, giving him a small smile to indicate that’s me.
His lips thin.I think he’s trying to smile?“Follow me.”
He beckons me through to a standard room with an examination table on the left, his corner desk to the right, along with two worn-out leather seats placed in front of it. There’s no photo frames on the walls, nothing to indicate a life outside of this windowless room.
“Have a seat, please.”
He clicks on his mouse, shaking it from side to side to wake the computer up and types on his keyboard. I sit in the chair, already knowing that he’s pulling up my file. I never understand why they don’t do this beforehand.
His eyebrows shoot upward.
Yep, he’s just seen how long my file is.
He whistles under his breath. “Right, and what brings you in this time?”
My stomach sinks; I apparently didn’t luck out today with a good GP. I’ve seen so many doctors in my life that I know within the first five minutes how an appointment is going to go, and this one is about to be torture.
Goddamnit, why did Dr. Martinez, my preferred GP have to retire while I was in Berlin?
Forcing a strained smile on my lips, I say as sweetly as I can, “I wanted to talk about my contraceptive options.”
He frowns. “Right.” Sighing, he turns his head back to his computer, typing away. “I’ll subscribe the standard birth control?—”
“Oh, sorry,” I interrupt, only to be frowned at. “I’m not sure if it’s in my file but I’m currently on a trial medication. I was in Berlin this past year. I just want to see what would be the best contraceptive fit for my current medical plan.”
He lowers his head to look at me over the rim of his glasses. “Yes, and like I was saying before, I will prescribe you?—”
“You didn’t even ask about my medication, though. How do you know if it’s compatible?”
His jaw clenches. “Do you know what medication you’re on?”
Do I know what I put inside my body every day to help me function? Yes, yes I do.
Listing the medication off the top of my head, I can tell I’ve surprised him. He reluctantly nods. “Well, if that’s your daily dosage, I would recommend a different brand.”
My left eye twitches.
This is not new to me.
Needing to be firm yet polite to advocate for myself. Dancing the fine line between being placid and yet needing to be stern without the doctor becoming irritated and dismissing you.
It shouldn’t be this way.
You should never have to monitor yourself this way in the medical field, but as someone that has seen more doctors than movies, I can firmly attest that it occurs. And unfortunately, it’s more prevalent for women.
The number of times where my symptoms were dismissed as hormones, a bad period, or anxiety is far too many. I was borderline gaslit that I was fine and look at me now, having to spend over a year in Berlin for treatment.
I was so angry in the beginning, angry and hurt that the person you pay to see to make you feel better never believed me and told me it would go away, only for it to get worse as time went on.
There are good doctors in the world, fantastic ones that are kind and compassionate toward their patients. However, that does not outweigh the horrendous ones that give the medical system a bad name. The horror stories I’ve not only heard but have experienced first hand are atrocious.
It took until I was seventeen to be properly diagnosed, and before that it was years of hospitalizations, emergency runs, and doctor appointments. It flipped my world upside down, and destroyed my parents.
