The Nuerologist
The room was dimly lit. Its lights mimicked that of an interrogation room, I, the suspect. This was the fourth doctor I had seen this month, each one passing me to the next. I had never been to a neurologist or a rheumatologist or cardiologist, for that matter. Something felt extra daunting about this visit though. I knew it didn’t work like this, but I felt as though this doctor would be able to see the inner workings of my brain just by looking at my forehead. I was spiraling, waiting in this interrogation room. I pushed my phone deep into my purse so when the doctor came in she would see that I was 100% focused on this visit, not just another young person obsessed with whatever it is people do on their phones.
There were diagrams of brains around the room. Infocharts, listing out different neurological conditions. I tried not to look. I didn’t want the doctor to think I was cheating, memorizing symptoms of obscure diseases to make my issues seem more legitimate.
I smoothed out my pants, checked to make sure there wasn’t a bulge occurring from my french tucked shirt. I wore business casual to this appointment, even though I’d been in pajamas all day. I just wanted to be taken seriously.
Suddenly the door swung open. A short square shaped woman lazily made her way into the room, her entrance not at all matching the quick swing of the door she slowly appeared from. “Hello” I said pleasantly. She made no eye contact with me. Behind her, a man wheeling a computer on a cart walked to a dark corner of the room without saying anything. She went straight to a chair at the other side of the room. Suddenly the space felt big, expanding, while I shrunk. She mentioned something about the man scribing. I was just focused on trying to appear relaxed. I nodded at the man as if to say “welcome.” She glanced at her phone, then slowly looked up “so why are you here?” she asked in a way that reminded me of the stark tone a principal would use on a child who is often misbehaving, both knowing what brought them to the principal's office.
Startled by her curtness, I did not know where to begin. My mind went blank, suddenly aware I was in this room alone, all by myself, my only advocate, me. “My doctor referred me to you because she thought it was possible I might have M-m-Multiple Sclerosis” I stammered. “Dammit” I thought. I needed to take control back. I had practiced for this appointment, memorizing dates of symptoms, how long they lasted, where I was, how old I was, what my environment was like. She asked me why my doctor thought that. I began to list out my symptoms. She looked bored.
As I began explaining my timeline, she pulled out her phone. I stopped talking, unsure whether to continue. “I have to take this,” she said. I went from feeling sad and small to pissed (but still small). She left the room, her scribe following closely behind. A few moments went by before she returned, her shadow man waddling in after her.
“I’m on call,” she said, annoyed. There was an apology wedged into her complaints about having to be on call for another doctor. I just gave her a soft chuckle. She sunk back in her chair. “So what do you do?” she asked, uninterested. It was a question that, at face value, is vague. “What do I do whennn…???” anyone without context may wonder. I immediately responded “I’m a program manager at Google.” She lit up the way a cat does, still evil looking but just a little more alert. All of a sudden I felt pissed and not so small.
She started mumbling something about my symptoms. I don’t think you have MS she shrugged. “Maybe she can see the inner workings of my brain” I thought to myself, unsure of how she was able to so quickly non-diagnose me. “Sounds like something else I can’t remember the name of” she said, sliding over to a computer on the left side of the room. “I’m going to use one of your products,” she joked as if humoring a young child. She began Googling my symptoms. Yes, you read that correctly. The neurologist booted up her computer from the 90s to Google my symptoms in front of me. “It could be this disease.” She mentioned some disease that I’d never heard of. I’d checked out at this point, head throbbing after running into another dead end on my medical journey.
She stood up and began to do random tests like holding her index finger in front of my nose and telling me to follow it with my eyes. She tested my reflexes. Then finally, she told me she would order an MRI just in case it was MS.
Once I got home, I immediately Googled the neurologist looking for her ratings, sure I had come across the worst doctor anyone had ever met. She came highly recommended, a doctor who did “knew her stuff” and offered “comprehensive care.” I wondered if any of those reviews were from black women who rehearsed for doctors appointments and dressed as if they were headed to an interview.
