A few weeks ago, I journeyed to the mystical land of New Orleans. I went there to meet with a neuroendocrine specialist. This was supposed to be the visit, the one that would give me a leg up on the future.
We got to the office a little before eight o’clock. My appointment was scheduled for 8am. The doors were locked, for a moment I thought perhaps we were there at the wrong time. After hanging out in the hallway for a bit, a staff person arrived and unlocked the door. The waiting room was decorated with all sorts of zebra patterns, it seemed like a fun looking place. There was a door that led into what appeared to be an infusion room. As I was looking around the receptionist had me sign some stuff then handed me paper work to fill it out. There was an abundance of things to fill out.
So much to fill out I don’t know how they expected me to get it all done. Ultimately, I prioritized what was important to me, which was getting the answers I drove all this way to get. After a few minutes, we were moved into the examination room, in hindsight I felt rushed. The vibe was like the staff or the doctor had some place to be and were running behind.
The doctor was friendly, he seemed like he was interested in listening and answering questions. But the red flags began very early in our conversation, the first being that he didn’t know that we had just driven hundreds of miles for this appointment. Another was he hadn’t looked at my medical history, my prior tests and scans or even my surgical notes.
In what I hoped would be the opportunity to explore my disease with a specialist became yet another unfortunate experience. Another unfortunate moment stacked onto a pile of stinky disappointments.