By Lynn Haraldson-Bering
When I weighed 139 pounds for five minutes back in 1991, a doctor told me to lose weight. I was pretty disheartened with his diagnosis, especially since I’d just lost 50 pounds and was feeling really good about myself.
So what did I do? Did I step back and look realistically at the situation? Assess what I thought was best for me in light of what he thought was best for me? Nope. I tried for a few more weeks to lose more weight, and when the scale didn’t move, I beat myself up and gave up. I eventually gained it (and an extra 100) back.
This enormous gain wasn’t that doctor’s fault. Back then, I had a hierarchical view of the doctor-patient relationship. Doctors were always right and I knew nothing. I thought I always had to take their advice because, well, they were doctors and knew everything. I never questioned what they said or sought a second opinion. I allowed them to intimidate me because I lacked self esteem and respect for myself.
I remember going to an urgent care clinic when my lungs hurt and couldn’t stop coughing. I’d been sick for two weeks, but I refused to go to my regular physician because he’d make me step on the scale and tell me to lose weight. The doctor at urgent care didn’t care what I weighed. He just treated my bronchitis and chided me for not coming in sooner because I could have developed pneumonia. I had no problem being scolded for not taking care of my lungs, but I always felt like crap whenever a doctor brought up my weight. I always felt like I was a bad person for being fat. It took me years to get over that. Years of therapy, actually. Until I cared about myself, I based most of my self-esteem on what others, particularly doctors, thought of me.
As Barbara said in her blog, Doctor Phobia, “Our knowledge of the body has become so vast that it has become nearly impossible for any one person to treat all of its parts. Yet in dividing up our bodies into the tiny territories of specialists, we’ve lost the overriding personal relationship that once defined a patient’s connection to his doctor.”
This doesn’t bode well for a person with doctor phobia, and I ache for people with horror stories and a reluctance to go to a doctor because of such negative experiences. But take it from someone who’s been there. If I hadn’t gotten over my fear (at least for the most part), I wouldn’t be as healthy as I am today.
Barbara also said: “There is no reason to be afraid of someone who has your best interests at heart.”
By rethinking the doctor-patient relationship, I’ve been able to see that no matter how insensitive they might seem, most doctors really do have our best interests at heart. I just had to get past the sting of their delivery and realize that what made me wince were my self-esteem issues. I allowed doctors to make me feel bad, even though that (probably) wasn’t their intent. I took their words far too personally. My darkest fear? That they were right and I had to change something about myself. Deep down, that was the problem. I didn’t think I could change.
When my arm doctor diagnosed a torn rotator cuff in my right arm in September 2008, I wrote about it. It’s taken me years to be my own best friend – in sickness and in health – and rereading that blog reminded me of how I used to “protect” myself, when really I was hurting myself by not seeking medical attention when warranted. I hope some of you find yourselves in my words or will find strength in them, knowing you get to decide what’s right for you. Your health is the most important thing you have. It’s worth protecting and standing up for.
I leave you with: “I’m The Decider.”
Some people’s bodies are temples. Mine is a drunken barroom with body parts going to hell like drunk people falling off bar stools.
My toes, feet, knees, wrists, elbows and now my shoulder with arthritis and a nearly full rotator cuff tear and biceps tendonitis – all of them are in some degree of disrepair. I feel like an old house with drafty windows and crumbling drywall. I need to get ahead of the destruction and find a way to stop or slow whatever is going on inside my joints.
I hate surgery and the thought of surgery and everything about surgery. It scares me. And no one has anything good to say about rotator cuff surgery. Everyone I’ve talked to – doctors, patients, relatives and friends of people who’ve had the surgery – say it’s extremely painful with a long and difficult rehab.
A friend suggested that many of these stories could be like the ones we heard while pregnant, of how horrible childbirth was. They might be, but I’d sure like to hear from someone, anyone, who had a good experience with rotator cuff surgery and recovery.
Part of me wants to say forget it. Rotator cuff tears are not life threatening and the worse that could happen is that I lose the use of my shoulder. Guess what? I already can’t use my wrists and elbows the way they were intended so what’s the difference if I can’t use my shoulder? I can’t lift much weight the way it is. I have to be careful how I twist jars open, chop food, use a mouse, type, feed myself, wash my hair and the list goes on and on. So big deal if I become the Gimpy Grandma who can’t lift her arm above her head? I’m still me. I’m still a thinking, feeling, dreaming human being who can find ways other than using my shoulder to express myself.
I realize doctors want to heal. They want to make us feel better. My shoulder guy is a very nice guy, but he said, and I quote, “Lynn, you’re 44 with the shoulder of a 70-year-old…I don’t know what to tell you…I can let your decision go to not do something about your wrists just now (NOTE: he recommends a full fusion of both, eliminating my ability to move them in any direction), but I can’t let this injury go.”
Um, Mr. Doctor? Yeah, the last time I checked I, ME, I was the one in charge of what I do and not do. I am, to use my favorite Bushism, The Decider.
My doctor has no choice in this matter. He’ll have to “let it go” if I decide to let it go. He can choose not to see me as a patient anymore if I don’t take his medical advice, but he doesn’t get to tell me what to do.
Maybe that’s what’s at the heart of what I’m feeling. Like I don’t have a choice. Like everything about my body is being decided for me. Like I’m being talked about in the third person.
I don’t want to be the Bionic Woman just yet. Something tells me it’s not time. I need to sit back and regroup. Collect my thoughts. Investigate. Learn. Most of all, I want to enjoy the anticipation of my grandbaby’s arrival in five weeks. That’s gotten muddled in all this negative surgery talk, all this fear. I get my thoughts tightly wound into a ball that then behaves like a skipped record. Time to lift the needle. Time to turn off the turntable. Time to turn fear into power.
I might be crumbling to pieces like an old brick stoop, my body might not be the temple I desire, but I still am The Decider.
