My doctor had advised me to see an endocrinologist because of my worsening symptoms and wacky lab results. Dr. Motazedi came highly recommended by the Washingtonian as one of DC's top endocrinologists, so I booked an appointment with him.
Two days before the appointment I received a call from his office informing me that I would need to pay up front because my insurance wasn't going to cover the visit, thanks to a pre-existing condition. I immediately called my insurance and they informed me that this wasn't the case. In fact, the woman I talked to at the insurance company happened to be the woman his office had talked to. She was able to flat-out tell me that they were mistaken. She seemed truly puzzled that they would have told me what they did.
On the day of my visit, which was scheduled at 8:30am, I sat in the waiting room for almost an hour. I usually don't have a problem with this, but I was the first patient of the day - they didn't have anyone else back there - so I did find it odd.
When I got into the exam room, an assistant asked if I had sent in any lab work. I explained that I had faxed lab work a week earlier and my doctor had also faxed lab work. They found the doctor's fax but it really took them a while to find the one I had sent. About 10 seconds after I heard them find the lab work I had faxed, Dr. Motazedi appeared. This clued me in to the fact that Dr. Motazedi hadn't looked at the lab results before seeing me.
On to the "exam":
Dr. Motazedi asked me to explain to him what was going on and I began. I was about halfway though my list when he stopped me with, "Have you seen a psychiatrist?"
I was taken aback. Why would he ask me this?! I explained that I hadn't recently and he seemed to instantly make up his mind.
"Ah," he said. "What you are describing: The fatigue, weakness, muscle cramps, memory loss, hair loss, the abnormal menstrual cycle - these could all be caused by depression."
At first I was understanding. He doesn't know me. He has no idea that I spend my nights at art and dance classes or out with friends. He doesn't know that I'm a cyclist and a runner and a hiker and a generally high-on-life sort of person. He doesn't know that I am FULLY aware of what depression is and what it feels like. He has no idea that I KNOW this is more than some odd psychosomatic thing.
He started asking me leading questions to justify his notion that I was merely feeling the physical impact of "the blues."
"Do you usually stay home when you're not at work?"
"No. I rarely stay home. I'm too active for that."
"Do you shy away from friends and social situations?"
"No. I'm very active and love being out with friends. I am in a book club, arts classes, dance classes, social clubs. I run. I paint. I'm not struggling with depression."
"Well, maybe you should see a psychiatrist."
At this point, the tone of his voice was very condescending. It was as if he were an adult and I was a 5 year old. And it hit me. I am a single girl in my early thirties. Obviously, any symptoms I have are due to "hysteria." I felt like I had been hurled back to the era of Freud and I became livid.
"What about my odd lab results?!? Do they mean nothing?"
"What results?" Oh, yes. He hadn't read them.
"Where are these results?" He asked while flipping, for the first time, through my chart.
I pointed them out and his very defensive response was, "Well, this doesn't prove that you have thyroid disease." I was a little flabbergasted by this statement. I didn't ever say I thought I had thyroid disease. I came to the doctor to see if there was something funky with my endocrine system - any part of it. He's the diagnostician, not me! At this point I realized that this guy had made up his mind the moment he saw me and any further discussion with him was going to be fruitless. After looking through my chart he admitted that there might be something to it, but he would need more blood-work before he could make a determination. He wrote up a request and gave me directions to the lab. I was, at this point, dumb with humiliation and shock. But boy was I still in for a surprise. As I was leaving he took my hand and said, in the voice of a father to his naughty child, "Please promise me you'll go see a psychiatrist."
I tried to imagine him saying this to me if I were a big black guy instead of a little white woman, but I couldn't. He wouldn't have jumped to this incorrect conclusion if I would have had a penis.
That's right. I'm playing the gender card. It's a card I've never played before (not even with my boss in Alaska who used to say, "Hey sugar, show me your tits!" every time he would see me), but I'm playing it now - and rightfully so.
I will never go back to Dr. Motazedi, no matter what my lab results are. read more
