The Final Chapter

The final chapter of last week’s meltdown is a tough one to write: My doctor fired me.

To be specific, she sent me an e-mail saying that I knew when I chose her as my new doctor six months ago that she only worked part-time, and if that wasn’t going to work for me, she suggested I find another doctor.

Well, I plan to do that. Immediately. No question. The problems I’ve had in the treatment room at that cancer center were enough to send me scrambling for an alternative, but then to have my doctor not get it …

So, what was this all about?

On Monday, I was short of breath from my anemia, plus I had what I thought was bronchitis—but could have been pneumonia, I’m not a doctor—and I couldn’t breathe. And my chest hurt.

When I picked said oncologist, who only works Wednesday-Friday, I interviewed her with a short list of crucial questions. One of these was, What do I do if I need to talk to you on a day when you are not in the clinic? And she said, “Call my office and ask to have me paged.” Great, I thought. And I wrote that down.

So that’s what I did on Monday, because I wasn’t sure if I should be heading to the emergency room or what.

I called at 10:30 and asked to have her paged. The person I talked to said very little, just took my name and number.

I called again at 11:30, and asked if they had been able to reach her. I was told they hadn’t paged her yet. I asked if they would please do so. I told the person I talked to what was wrong (the first person I talked to hadn’t asked).

I called again an hour later. I was told, only then, that they were NOT going to page my doctor, but that the nurse would call me back, “when she has time.”

I was calm up to this point, but by the time I finally did talk to the nurse, at 1:30, I was in full meltdown mode. No question.

I explained that I was only doing what the doctor had told me to do, and that no one had told me that that was not OK with the staff in the clinic. And no one had told me, the first two times I called, that they were not going to page the doctor. .. So what was up with that?

She just wanted to cut to the chase and talk about what was wrong with me.

So I pulled it together, put on my sunglasses, and went in for my chest X-ray and to get some antibiotics, and I didn’t discuss it again when I was there. I also didn’t tell my doctor about it via e-mail, figuring I would leave it for a time when the meltdown was safely over and I was talking to her face-to-face, but clearly her staff had given her an earful.

And she sent me the e-mail suggesting I find another doctor.

So here’s a question: I’m not the first cancer patient ever to have a meltdown. But no one I talked to, including my (now former) doctor or her nurse, seemed to recognize that or show any understanding, or any compassion for the fact that I was sick and scared. Why is that?

I’m disappointed.

@ Jeanne Sather 2007.