AFTER SEVENTEEN MONTHS TRYING TO FIND OUT WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME...
We drove into the ambulance area of the ER because I couldn’t walk from the parking area back to the hospital. William went in and told the nurse that I couldn’t walk, and they sent someone out with a wheelchair. I could barely lift my arms, and my legs hurt to walk. I felt as though, whatever was wrong with me, I was fighting a losing battle. I dreaded the long wait time in the ER and even being in this kind of environment. William parked the car, came back, and never left my side, reassuring me that everything would be fine and that if anyone could find out what was wrong, the doctors at St. Michael’s would. He’d had prior experience with the doctors here and was confident that this would be our last stop. We went through the typical registration process, and the staff was patient and accommodating. We had to wait until we were called, like everybody else who was not an urgent case. They called us about forty-five minutes later, and I was surprised and comforted myself with the thought that maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I’d imagined. We waited another hour or so until we saw a nurse who did the intake, and we again related the history of my symptoms. William told him we had a copy of my C-spine MRI on a CD, along with all other reports from day one of my ordeal. We thought it would save time and resources because I already had done all the tests, so they wouldn’t have to do them again. Besides, we just wanted someone to give us feedback regarding the C-spine MRI. The nurse said that they would do their blood work, in case other testing missed something. We were then sent to another, more private room, which I appreciated, because there was an examination table and I could stretch out, since sitting for so long aggravated my pain. The on-call ER doctor showed up and retook a history of my symptoms. His shift would be over soon, and we didn’t see him again. More time went by, and a young intern came in and asked me to tell my story again. I did, and he said his colleague would be by to talk with us. We waited for what seemed like two hours before another young intern came by and asked us to tell her about my symptoms again. She listened very attentively as they all did, and I tried to be as specific and detailed as possible because I thought maybe she would pick up on something that the other doctors may have missed along the way. She asked a couple of questions, which I answered. Then I asked her if I could ask a question. She said yes, and I asked if she’d ever heard of the kind of tremors I had been experiencing and gave her a synopsis of what they felt like and when I got them. I got the feeling she thought I was bizarre when she said she’d never heard about tremors such as these. I told her about the pain at the back of my head, which felt like a squeezing sensation. I described the pain that ran from the back of my head to the skin in my outer ears, especially the left one. She didn’t take any notes, and I couldn’t help but wonder how she would remember everything I told her, because it was a lot. She said they were very busy and she would be back and left the room. We waited another couple of hours. I could barely find a comfortable position that didn’t cause intolerable pain. The pain felt like a hot rod ran into the base of my skull and intensified when I rested my head on a surface. The nurse told us that pillows were a hot commodity in the hospital, so there were none. After about four hours of getting to the hospital, the nurse who did the intake came and said that he would admit me, and someone would be by to take me to a room. Everyone we dealt with was very professional and made me feel comfortable, and I kept thinking, this is it. Someone here will finally figure it out, and my ordeal will soon end. The nurse got me a sandwich, which I ravenously ate since we’d been there for about six hours. William refused to leave me when I told him to go out and get something to eat because he wanted to be there when the doctor came by. We got to the hospital in the early afternoon, and it was close to midnight when they moved me to a room not too far from where we originally were. William helped me to get cleaned up for bed, and a few minutes after I settled in for the night, they said I would be transferred to another room. I tried to stay positive, especially after the nurse said that we would see a team of specialists the next morning. I would have been quite happy just seeing a neurologist, but a team sounded more promising. I was put in a private room, quite different from a typical hospital room as it was glass all around, and given a sedative and pain meds. I didn’t know what they were but took them anyway, desperate for relief. The bed wasn’t a typical hospital bed either, more like an examination table, and it was not comfortable because it was so narrow. I was in this room maybe forty-five minutes before another nurse came and said I had to move again, this time to a standard hospital room I shared with another patient. The sedative didn’t work, and I was still up at 2:00 a.m. William asked the nurse if there was something else she could give to help me get to sleep, and she brought me yet another sedative. The female intern who saw us in the ER came by and asked how I was doing. When William told her about my pain, she asked if she should give me intravenous pain meds. He said no, though, because nothing seemed to work. William stayed at my bedside the whole time, and I think I finally dozed off around 4:00 a.m. The pain didn’t let me sleep for very long, as usual, and I awoke feeling a bit disoriented, not remembering where I was for a few seconds. William wasn’t where I’d last seen him, in a chair next to the bed, and I became a bit frantic and called the nurse. She told me that he had gone out to the car, and so I called him on his cell phone. He got back to the room quickly and said that he was tired and couldn’t sleep in the chair, so when I finally fell asleep, he’d gone to the car and was able to get an hour or so. He told me that he watched me as I slept, and I woke up every ten to twelve minutes, groaned in pain, and then dozed back off to sleep. We knew the team of doctors would make their rounds around 10:00 a.m., so I got ready and waited for their arrival. The attending doctor, Dr. James, came by and said that we would have more privacy if we went to a nearby conference room. I sensed William’s eagerness at the mere thought of laying it all out on the table because he believed with all his heart that my problems stemmed from my spine. He wheeled me into the dimly lit conference room. There were about five, maybe six other very young people already seated at the table. Dr. James asked if it was okay that they were there, and I agreed and wondered if this was the team of specialists. He said that they were interns, and I speculated about how much experience they had, but I told myself to keep an open mind. William couldn’t wait to get to the whiteboard to draw it all out for them, but this didn’t happen, as the meeting took a completely different turn than the one we anticipated. The female intern who had listened to my history of symptoms in the ER the previous night read from her notes everything I told her, practically word for word. It was very detailed, just as I’d described. It impressed me that she’d remembered so much because she didn’t take notes during our conversation. It was as if she recorded our conversation because her recollection of my symptoms was quite extraordinary. Especially, I thought, having worked (I’m sure) a twelve-hour or more shift, seeing various patients with various symptoms. When the intern finished, Dr. James, who sat crossed-legged with a notepad on his lap, scribbling as he listened to the intern, raised his head. His glasses were poised at the end of his nose as he looked over them at William and me, and asked if we agreed with everything the intern had read. We said that, yes, we agreed. After telling us that I’d had a plethora of tests done as well as the blood work they did the night before, which were negative for any disease, he said, “There is nothing wrong with you!” I was in total shock, and my eyes filled with tears, and my heart raced. I kept my composure when I felt a wave of heat move over my body. The thought ran through my head: If a doctor at such a reputable hospital said nothing was wrong with me, then this indeed was the end of the road. After talking a bit more about all the tests I had, which showed nothing, he looked at William, wagged his index finger at him, and said, “It’s time to get your wife off the medical treadmill and stop taking her from doctor to doctor.” If hearing the words nothing is wrong with you didn’t cut like a knife, this statement was full of implications, the most important being that I shouldn’t or couldn’t seek any further medical investigations. I knew in my heart that I would end up immobile. I didn’t think I could’ve felt any worse, but then he continued on his verbal tirade: “Some people would kill for your results.” He then proceeded to tell a story about a patient who came to the ER with headaches, and they couldn’t find anything wrong with her after she had various tests. He said, “She had gone up north to a mental health retreat and was cured.” I could see the steam coming out of William’s ears, and he then interjected. “So let me ask you something: The body doesn’t send a signal to the brain that you have pain unless you have pain?” The doctor responded. “Oh, yes, it does!” “Do tell,” William said. Dr. James explained that whatever was happening with me was a mind-body thing that they didn’t understand and wasn’t within their medical scope. I could hear the disgust in William’s tone. He then turned to the young interns, and said, “Let me ask you a question. If a patient comes to you presenting with signs of a pinched sciatic nerve, what are their symptoms? It’s a burning, shooting, stabbing, throbbing pain coming out of their ass, and it’s either going down their right leg or their left leg. Would you agree?” All the interns nodded their heads in agreement. William said, “Exactly! My wife has the same problem, but it’s coming out of her neck.” None of them responded verbally, but Dr. James kept on his dialogue about the mind-body connection being something that is not fully understood. At this point, I spoke up, saying that I was quite aware of the mind-body connection because I was a Reiki Master, and I was quite mindful of the possibility of thoughts affecting one’s health. I told them that, because I understand the mind-body connection, I had seen a psychotherapist. “Did you pay for this service?” asked Dr. James “Yes,” William said, “a hundred dollars an hour.” His response was even more confusing and disturbing. “Oh, he’s not a real doctor!” I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry, and I thought I could’ve saved myself $700. What kind of doctor did I pour my heart out to, if Philip wasn’t a real doctor? I wanted Dr. James and the interns to understand that, even if they didn’t understand the mind-body connection, I understood it. I told them that it had been scientifically proven, for example, that being around a body of water has a calming effect on the mind, which results in physiological changes in the body, and that the phenomenon is known as blue mind. I said research showed that simply being near the waters’ edge affected the mental state of a person. In the experiment, the participants’ heart and pulse rates were reduced, which resulted in a calmer state. I talked briefly about the effects of meditation on the mind, and about being in nature, for example, walking on grass and its grounding effects. There was one male intern in the room, and in my peripheral vision, I noticed he nodded his head, and I thought he agreed with me. The other interns watched me with blank stares on their faces, and no one said anything. I thought that, just maybe, there was one person who did understand the mind-body connection, and I said to him, “You’re nodding your head yes. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He then looked like a deer caught in headlights, his eyes opened wide and a confused expression on his face. He quickly shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand. I thought to myself, if these are the kind of doctors medical schools are producing, we are in big trouble! And worse, that Dr. James was training them to view patients the same way he does. I wanted to get out of the conference room, hospital, and city as fast as I could because I couldn’t bear to listen to any more of Dr. James’ reprimands that I was making up this pain in my head. The combination of anger, fear, resentment, frustration, and pure disbelief over what had transpired left me emotionally drained. The words to describe how I felt about this doctor and the interns in the room who tried to convince me that my pain was not real, don’t exist. (Actually, the words do exist, but I’m trying to keep the party polite.) We went back to the room, and the nurse told us that we had to wait for the doctor to discharge me. We waited for almost an hour until one of the interns who was in the meeting room came by and handed me a single sheet of paper. I looked at it and read the following: I came to the hospital on August 29, 2018, and left on August 30, 2018. I came in because of Somatoform Disorder. I didn’t know what the term somatoform meant, but the word disorder gave me a chill when I read it. I asked for clarification because no one used the word disorder in the conference room. I don’t remember what the intern said, but she pointed to the information on the page regarding follow-up, medications, and rationale. The doctor prescribed: lorazepam for insomnia and anxiety and baclofen for muscle rigidity and tightness.