Trying to talk to you, arrogant asshole, is like hitting my face against a brick wall. God forbid I should ever ask you for any straight information about the state of my health, you horrible worm with an attitude. Now after half a year for the first time you tell me I was supposed to have monthly appointments? Which you were supposed to inform me about but didn’t? And because I missed my bloodwork at the 4-week point in my course of treatment — *which you were supposed to tell me about and didn’t — now you don’t know if you have enough information to decide whether I can safely stop this treatment. So you said I should continue it for another 9 weeks of pure miserable hell. I told you it’s ruining my life and you said “It’s designed to to that,” like it’s a fucking joke, you inhuman prick. You fucked up my treatment and refuse to accept responsibility for it, you worthless disgrace to the medical profession. You’re one more perfect example of why I’ve avoided male doctors for years. Fuck you. Dammit, I fucking hate doctors most of the time, especially gastroenterologists, all the ones I went to have a stupid attitude stuck way up their rectums. Fuck them.
This is what lawsuits are meant for.
Please, dear, find a better doctor. They may not be easy to find, but they are out there. Focus the energy you are wasting on hating this one into finding a better one.
Then find a good malpractice lawyer.
And, if it helps - there is sage burning and healing thoughts going your way…
I feel your pain.
I had a doctor once who, when I went to him because I’d been put on Prozac and was feeling like I’d been hit by a truck, told me that the solution was to ‘go to the gym or something’. Because I’m fat.
- Never mind that my reaction to the Prozac was a sleeping heart rate of 113bpm (my husband checked it because he was worried) and blood pressure through the roof (normally I’m 120/80). :dubious:
- Never mind that I could barely raise the energy to get up and shower daily while I was taking this stuff.
- Never mind that it wasn’t doing *jack * for my depression and now I could add feeling like hell to the equation.
No, my problem was (apparently) that I was fat - and ‘hey, no wonder you’re depressed!’ (Um, no, I don’t *think * so, genius-man…) So his recommendation, therefore, was that I should start exercising as soon as possible. Of course, it probably would have killed me if I’d followed that advice, given the state of my blood pressure and heart rate. (Guess that’s one way to cure depression and cleanse the world another fat person - all in one convenient package.)
He wouldn’t tell me(!) *how * to quit the medication safely, so like an idiot I stopped cold turkey. Had a fascinating day or so of the world suddenly jolting on me (it felt like the world turned, say, a quarter-inch and I didn’t move with it) and general weirdness, but in fairly short order I was back to ‘normal’ and just had depression to cope with…which by this stage I’d figured I was better off getting through on my own!
Then I had another doctor who, after I told her I’d been bleeding (like a moderately heavy period; a couple of pads a day) for a month straight, told me it was nothing to worry about.
- She said the same thing at 3 months.
- Same at 6 months, and then 10 months.
She said it was ‘probably due to me having gone off the pill and having a thick uterine lining to clear out’. THICK? The amount I was losing, and fresh blood too, it’d have to be bloody thick - no pun intended.
Anyway, by this stage I’d had enough of my concerns about this being dismissed, so to shut me up she sent me to a gynaecologist to have a curette done (and while I was in there, get an IUD inserted). Turns out I had a polyp in there. Benign, as it turns out (thankfully).
Anyway, they cut the polyp out and then - rather unfathomably if you ask me - stuck the IUD in there anyway with the fresh wound, which - and I’m theorising here - probably accounted for the ungodly post-op infection I had that left me in such agony that I’d try not to breathe because it hurt so much. When I rang up the office to try to get them to do something (anything!), they told me:
“*we did * warn you that there might be some discomfort afterwards” :eek:
Very expensive gynaecologist, and that was the level of concern.
I saw a GP and got antibiotics that cleared it up with what I considered to be amazing rapidity… although I *was * given the cheery news at the time that “I know you’re allergic to penicillin, and this is (either it was ‘like penicillin’ or ‘a penicillin deriviative’ or something; I don’t quite remember) which means there’s about a 10 percent chance this could make you worse or possibly kill you, but it’s absolutely our best chance to fix up this infection”. By that stage, I was quite willing to risk it!
So I really do feel your pain. Idiot doctors make it so much harder for patients to trust the good ones, and it sounds like you’ve had a series of idiots. 
They never pay their Bills in a timely manner either, apparently they expect us to wait until they get around to it, 90 days, 120 days, 6 months…