“I think you’re just a hypochondriac,” the doctor sighed, following up with, “Maybe it’s anorexia?”
For months, I had been battling health issues that began with a stomach virus during Thanksgiving. Juggling my first semester teaching college writing and pursuing grad school was overwhelming. The virus seemed like a mere inconvenience—little did I know, it was just the beginning.
What followed was a grueling sixteen months filled with confusion and despair. My weight plummeted, and despite an insatiable hunger and thirst, I couldn’t regain the pounds I lost. Chronic sinus infections plagued me, I endured round after round of antibiotics, and simple tasks left me utterly drained. Even getting into my car felt like a monumental effort.
After yet another visit to my doctor—my fifteenth—I was met with his irritation and a lack of belief in my symptoms. He dismissed my cries for help, attributing my condition to either hypochondria or an eating disorder, neither of which resonated with my reality. I returned home feeling defeated, crawling into bed while glancing at my wedding photo, a reminder of the vibrant woman I once was. Where had she gone?
On one particularly exhausting Friday, as I attempted to grade student essays, fatigue enveloped me. I guzzled an orange shake and curled up on the couch, too weary to even answer my ringing phone. Hours later, it was my husband, who sensed something was amiss. He rushed home, whisking me off to the emergency room.
It was here that I finally received a diagnosis: type 1 diabetes, a chronic autoimmune condition. I had entered the ER in a perilous state known as diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA), a potentially fatal condition resulting from prolonged insulin deprivation. My blood sugar level was a staggering 700, seven times the normal range. Nurses expressed disbelief that I was still alive. “You could have died,” one said, patting my frail arm.
After my release from the hospital, I left the doctor who had failed me, considering a negligence lawsuit but ultimately deciding to focus my energy on managing my new reality. I found a new, much more competent physician who believed in my symptoms. It’s astonishing how straightforward it is to diagnose type 1 diabetes with a simple blood test. Yet, despite my lengthy battle and clear symptoms, my concerns were dismissed. Instead, I felt as if my struggles were being trivialized.
Twelve years later, history seemed to repeat itself. I discovered a painful lump in my breast, which intensified with the slightest pressure. After an ultrasound and mammogram, my gynecologist assured me there was nothing to worry about, merely recommending monitoring the mass for six months. But something didn’t sit right with me, prompting me to seek a breast surgeon for a biopsy. Three weeks later, I received my second life-altering diagnosis: breast cancer.
I quickly changed hospitals and doctors, and with my new physician’s support, I opted for a bi-lateral mastectomy. At thirty-six, I joined the 5% of women under forty diagnosed with breast cancer. Finally, I found a doctor who truly listened.
Twice in my life, I voiced my concerns, and twice I was dismissed. Both misdiagnosing doctors were men—was it simply bad luck, or was there an underlying sexism in their responses? I’ll never know.
To all women out there, if you feel unheard, keep advocating for yourself. Get that second opinion. Your health and life depend on it. Remember, speaking up could mean the difference between life and death.
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In summary, my journey through misdiagnosis serves as a reminder to trust your instincts and fight for your health.
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