My Personal Experience with Bad Healthcare

Healthcare reform has been the subject of angry debate on the news channels and in town hall meetings. It seems everywhere you go, people are pretty hopping mad about the state of healthcare. Until a few days ago, I was hopping mad because I didn't want the government to try to fix it. I have excellent health insurance, so I don't want to lose it. What I do want to see reformed is not my coverage but instead, the way healthcare is delivered and who gets to administer it. I don't think the government will be able to improve that, to keep those who shouldn't be taking care of ill people, who shouldn't have the responsibility of having someone's life in their hands, out of healthcare.

This week I lost 24 hours of my life, two days' pay, and my health issue is not resolved. Because of my experience this week, it may never get resolved, because I never again want to see another hospital, nurse, doctor or anyone in the health care industry. I had a mysterious abdominal pain for three days before I sought any medical attention. I'm not the type of person who pops a pill every time I have a headache or goes to the doctor every time I have a sniffle. Though I had some serious acute health issues in the past, it's been about three years since I've been to a doctor, have needed to see a doctor. I consider myself to be pretty healthy. The other day I went to work though I was doubled over in pain and in tears. On the third day I didn't make it halfway through my shift. I waited until my lunch break and let my sweetie drive me to the nearest hospital. It was not my hospital of choice. After my experience this week, I will never go back.

I do have to mention that the staff in admitting is very sympathetic and helpful. One woman got a wheelchair under me before I had collapsed. Another helped me dig through my wallet for my insurance information. Another wheeled me to the waiting area and assured me I'd only have to wait a few minutes to be seen.

It was about ten or fifteen minutes later when the triage nurse opened the door and called my name. She frowned at me when I raised my hand. It took several attempts for me to push myself to stand. Someone in the waiting room lurched and offered me his arm when I almost lost my balance. The nurse never stepped forward to help. After frowning at me, she never made eye contact. She asked me a total of three questions: When did the pain start? On a scale of one to ten, how do you rate the severity of the pain? Do you have any allergies? She was about to send me back to the waiting room when I asked her where the nearest restroom was. Without looking at me, she directed me to a restroom through another door and down a long hall. As an afterthought, she gave me a cup and told me to give a sample. I made it back what seemed like an eon later and gave her the sample discreetly wrapped in several paper towels. She looked at me as if she had never seen me before and forgot that she had asked for a sample. Apparently she forgot to send it to the lab, because two hours later, I was asked to give another. The physician's assistant said they had never gotten my first one.

I found an empty seat in the waiting room and waited to be called. Two hours went by, but I was barely cognizant of it because I was in so much pain. At one point a woman who was waiting with her husband asked if there was anything she could do. She said she was going to see if they could get me in right away. Someone from admitting said she was going to let "them know in the back" that I was in a lot of pain and needed to be seen. I want to thank the women who were concerned enough to try, but their efforts did not speed things up. As I saw people with needle sticks and sprained ankles go ahead of me, I began to get the feeling I was being make to wait longer on purpose. Finally a nurse in royal blue scrubs appeared the door and called my name. By that point, I couldn't get out of my chair without assistance. Someone helped me into another wheelchair, and it was not the nurse. As she bumped the chair into corners and walls, I apologized for her having to wheel me to the room. She muttered something under her breath. In the room she tossed a gown at me and told me to put it on. Maybe she asked me if I could put it on. Even if I had said I couldn't, I doubt she would have helped me.

About another hour passed before I saw someone else. She introduced herself as a physician's assistant. She asked the same three questions the triage nurse did. She pushed on my abdomen, and when I yelped in pain, she asked if I still had my appendix. She smiled in a way that told me she had decided on the diagnosis. Not once did she ask me about my medical history. She turned to wash her hands. Embarrassed, I whispered I had to go to the bathroom. She whispered in a way that seemed like she was mocking me, "Ooh okay." Since I could barely stand, she said she'd get me a potty chair. I apologized as she went out the door. She left a cup on the counter and asked me to give a sample. I didn't verbalize it, but I wondered what had happened to the first sample.

An agonizing 15 minutes later a nurse's aide dragged a potty chair into the room. She dropped it in between the counter and the gurney. I apologized, and she harrumphed as she went out the door. I started to cry again. I got angry when I realized I felt I had to apologize to someone for doing something that was supposed to be part of her job. No matter. I didn't see the girl the rest of the time I was there.

Another hour or so passed, and I was still in pain. A nurse who could have passed for Clay Aiken introduced himself and started to draw blood. For yet another time I was asked the same popular 3 questions. He gave me some pain meds and hooked me up to an IV. I asked why I needed an IV. He told me our bodies are made up of water. I was in too much pain to start a discussion, to tell him I was not dehydrated and really didn't need a bag of normal saline solution. I joked later to my sweetie that they probably hung a saline bag for every patient that came through the ER so they could bill everyone's insurance company $300. It eventually made sense to me later, as I was a possible surgical patient and was not allowed anything by mouth. Not even ice chips.

Though the Clay Aiken nurse look-alike seemed nice enough, he never asked about my medical history. He wrapped the call bell around the rail and instructed me to use it if I needed anything. I told him that nurses don't respond to call bells. They don't like to be bothered. He said some nurses do try and didn't seem offended by my snarky comment. He smiled and told me not to be so bitter, then slipped out the door. I'd see him one more time to ask me what my pain level was and to tease me about not yet using the call bell.

Hours later, my sweetie had gotten off work early and was surprised that I wasn't closed to being released from the ER. In tears I told him how apathetic most of the staff seemed. How I was apologizing. How no one had asked me about my medical history that could be somewhat relevant. When the physician's assistant returned, he spoke up. He said, "I mean no offense, but we're both concerned. No one has asked her about her medical history since she's been there." (Sidebar: The last time I had been to a doctor as a patient was three years ago, before I moved to this town. Since moving, my former primary care physician has closed practice. None of the doctors or nurses at this hospital had any records to refer to, nor did they request any.) He started to tell her about my history of ovarian cysts and pulmonary emboli. The fact that I had had a heart catheterization several years ago and that lately the area around my scar has been raised and tender. The physician's assistant's eyes widened and she kept inching backward toward the door. In a high-pitched voice she said they were waiting for the results of my pregnancy test and then I could go for a CAT scan. While my sweetie meant no offense, she was obviously offended. I told him, "See? Now you pissed her off. Who knows what she could do to me." It was ludicrous for me to think she could to anything to harm me or to withhold treatment from me. The fact was that I didn't feel safe, nor did I trust her. No patient should ever feel that way.

Later my sweetie would offend her further when he apologized and told her he was concerned and just wanted to make sure I was getting the best possible care. To this she responded, "She can sign herself out and go anywhere else. I don't care." I waited until the door had shut behind her to start crying for the umpteenth time again. The next time she appeared in my room, I felt anxious and scared of her. I almost did sign myself out. My sweetie made it his mission to mention to everyone else how upset we were about the apathy we encountered. One radiologist did ask me for my medical history and asked if there was anything else she wanted me to note.

The physician's assistant returned and said the doctor with whom she was working wanted me to stay overnight for observation. They were trying to rule out appendicitis. I said that I could go home for the night and return the next morning. She said that by that time the pain would get worse or my appendix might burst, and I would have to endure an uncomfortable car ride back. After some debate, I acquiesced and agreed to stay overnight. My sweetie was on to me. He knew that if I had left then, I would not return. Not to that hospital or to any other. Fortunately, that was the last time we saw her. He said he noticed her rolling her eyes when I refused more pain medication, because I said I wanted to remain lucid.

Around five in the morning I heard a knock and a doctor introduced himself. He wanted a surgeon to consult on the case. He said it was "almost definitely appendicitis." At the least he wanted me to stay another night for observation. I had finally dozed off again when the surgeon arrived. He didn't knock. He entered the room and blasted on the lights. Blinded and disoriented, I asked him to repeat himself. Annoyed, he spoke slowly and loudly, like he thought I was retarded. He asked the same three questions everyone else had, but he did ask for follow-up. When I told him I was allergic to Coumadin, he said, "That's a funny thing to be allergic to, what makes you think you're allergic to it?" I told him I had developed vasculitis. My arms had turned blue and numb. He laughed and shook his head like he didn't believe me, or maybe I had misused the word, vasculitis. Then he asked why I was on Coumadin in the first place. I told him I had blood clots. He asked "where?" I told him my lungs. He asked what the cause had been. Birth control pills. Even though he was asking about my medical history, he made me feel as if I was wasting his precious time. I didn't even bother telling him about my heart catheterization.

He went on to say my tests had been negative and that he wanted me to have a CAT scan with contrast. I told him why bother, since he seemed convinced nothing was wrong with me. Then he said, "Two days later after your appendix bursts and I'm in court they'll ask me why I didn't do this test."

"Oh, I get it," I said. "CYA."

Irritated, he told me he was going to dictate his notes on me then return for my decision. He left, and I cried. I was feeling worse than when I first arrived, and my pain wasn't getting any better. The surgeon returned and asked me what I had decided. I said, "Fine. We'll do it your way. CYA." He walked out of the room saying he would schedule the CAT scan. He'd be back after his surgeries, around mid afternoon, unless it came back negative, and in that case I could go home.

As soon as the results came back, a nurse who had replaced the Clay Aiken look-alike told me what she had found out and that the surgeon wanted to speak with me. She asked if I had heard of intussusception. I told her what I had known about it, and remarked that it usually happens to babies. Rarely to adults. Well. That wasn't what I wanted to hear, but at least there was a reason for my pain. Or was there? But if I needed surgery, I didn't want that surgeon cutting into me. The surgeon arrived and told me what had come back negative. No ovarian cysts. No appendicitis. He said there was a "possible intussusception." He asked if I had heard of it but kept talking as I started answering. He then pressed and poked my abdomen and when I contracted in pain when he pressed on my right side, he dismissed the diagnosis. The results said it was on my left side, but I was showing pain on my right side. Incidentally, it worsened when he released pressure and continued to hurt for several hours thereafter. I wanted to tell him that I had ovarian cysts on my left side but they weren't found until one burst because everyone, including the doctor, was trying to find the source of pain on my right side. He said, "Here are your options..." but he was looking at my boyfriend instead of me when he talked. I interrupted him when he said I could go home, "because he thinks it's all in my head." The surgeon said, "No, no, no, that's not what I said." He said I could make an appointment to meet him in his office. For what? I said, "No chance of that," which garnered a few curious looks from others in the room. He said in a nasty tone that he wrote on my discharge orders to "come back to the hospital if the pain gets worse." I told him there was no chance in hell I would ever see him or return to that hospital. He threw up his hands and said, "Go to another hospital. I don't care. It's a free country!" And that's how this doctor and patient parted. He left with a negative impression of me. I left not feeling any better and definitely without being able to trust our current healthcare system. Sadly, I don't think the current healthcare reform our politicians and President Obama are trying to push through the House will improve the patient experience. I think if it passes our healthcare will end up being even worse. Until this past week, I didn't think there was much wrong with our current healthcare system. I also think one of the last things it needs is government intervention.