But you don’t have OCD?

“But you don’t have OCD, right?”

That was the third time someone suggested I have a mental illness, just because they couldn’t figure out how to deal with my medical complaint. The first time was with a consultant when I was in my first year of med school. I was medically illiterate. He wasn’t the first doctor I saw; the first one was compassionate and cute. The only thing wrong with him was that he diagnosed me incorrectly, so other than prescribing the inappropriate drug for several months, everything was fine. He told me not to be anxious, that the problem would resolve eventually. Such a nice middle-aged doctor. Getting back to the first un-nice middle-aged doctor, he ran some tests, and in the second appointment, while reading from a report, he concluded that my reported symptoms weren’t real and could be something psychological, not an actual organic issue he could address. It wasn’t just frustrating to have your symptoms undervalued; I felt locked in, trapped. How— instead of reviewing your symptoms— were you supposed to convince someone that you’re sane? For a medically illiterate human being, my best response to this was to hold back my tears until we left that horrible consultation room.

My second doctor wasn’t someone I held resentment for. He was a family medicine doctor. My mom suggested I go for just one appointment to try my luck. No offense, but I did that out of being a good daughter, not expecting much from him—again, no hard feelings.

For my third, it was different. I arrived early for the appointment. When it was my turn, I entered a small room. No, I wasn’t nervous being around one attendant, and two male interns, all males. My heart was racing and I was sweating, so basically not nervous at all. “Is that how patients feel when we take history from them?” I thought.

The attendant was sitting; one intern stood in front of me, and the other sat behind me in a chair.

I’m a fourth-year medical student, a junior, well-educated (still not a doctor). Despite being nervous, my voice wasn’t shaken. I could tell where the doctor was heading with his questions, so I saved us both some time and said, “No XX,” meaning no + the medical term for a curtain symptom he was trying to explain in long sentences. He took a good history, then asked the intern to document the case on the computer (didn’t feel great to be a “case”). He was reviewing the positive and negative findings with me when, in between, he hesitantly asked with a lower tone, that question. For a moment, I had that stupid feeling again. I felt like a child. Although I had him ask early on if I was a doctor or medical staff, he still couldn’t resist asking. Anyhow, it was brief. I gave him the look a Muslim patient might give a doctor when asked whether they drink alcohol. And I said, “No.” I was disappointed. I felt I wasn’t taken seriously, even though I can read my own labs. But this time, it felt like it was a question he had to ask, just like the alcohol consumption question. We arranged another appointment to see the female consultant because she was on vacation, and he asked me to do some tests. I asked if we could skip this step since I had already done some of them several times before.

He asked me to do them because the consultant usually prefers to interpret her own tests. Sigh, fine.

When I walked out of that room, I had one question in my head: “Do I need to start wearing black scrubs?” Everyone in the room was wearing black—nice.

I had a whole month before my next appointment with the consultant. I was already doing hospital rotations at that hospital every other week, so I could come any time before my rotation started to do the tests. A week later, I received an updated SMS about my new appointment—apparently, they found a way to make it earlier, during that week. I thought, yeah, maybe she’s experienced enough to establish her diagnosis based on the history and my relevant previous lab results.

That week, I was at another hospital for my rotations, which was far from home. Going there felt like traveling. Having the appointment would let me save on gas money, as suggested by my mom, and I would take a sick leave (I never take sick leaves).

I looked up my doctor on Google. She was a consultant with many fellowships, one of which was in the complaint I was consulting her for. That seemed reassuring, but I was nervous—wait, no, this was not the right way to put it. I was freaking out. Would she ask me questions? What kind of questions? I should be prepared. I didn’t freak out when I had to do my OSCE exams, but I was freaking out over a simple appointment. Something inside me wanted to prove myself to a doctor, not one from my college, but one whose opinion wouldn’t affect my academic grades. “You’re a patient” so just be one. But I know I can’t. It happens involuntarily. I can’t shut my brain down, can’t temporarily erase what I’ve learned. Whenever a doctor is taking history, I’ve already made my differential diagnosis.

Monday came. I arrived early for my appointment. I waited for a while before it was my turn to get my blood pressure, heart rate, and weight checked. My blood pressure was 114/69, which is perfect for ladies. My heart rate was 90 bpm, which felt like a lot for me. My weight was 50, probably just water retention from my period; I’m usually 49 (yes, it does matter).

Vital signs were recorded and sent to the doctor. I headed to Room 24. My heart was pounding again. “No need to be nervous,” I told myself. I sat down for a while, then the nurse called for “10,” which was my number. The consultation didn’t take long—maybe not even 60 seconds.

The consultant read from the file on her computer—a file that didn’t include any of my previous evaluations. It felt like I was starting from zero again. The three male doctors sat silently, and I dare say I saw a glimpse of fear on their faces.

“Why now?”

A complaint of 4 years should bring up a question like that, because a patient has either gone to different doctors before coming to you or experienced a serious change that brought them to the hospital. I wasn’t asked, “Why now?” Instead, she asked whether I had done the lab and radiological tests she ordered. My radiological test appointment was scheduled before my appointment with her (which was changed later on).

“What about the lab samples? Lab tests don’t require an appointment!”

She said with a disappointed tone. For her, it was the simplest thing, and I hadn’t even done it.

“We can’t do anything now.”

I felt like an excellent student being scolded for not doing my homework. I wasn’t going to tell her why I couldn’t do the lab tests.

She quickly wrote a signed paper so I could do the radiological test that day and asked the nurse to note, “If the lab is positive, we will give XX, negative, follow up in 3 months.”

And the consultation was over. I already knew her differential. Any patient who has been to different doctors would know her differential—it doesn’t take 4 years of med school to figure that out. I wasn’t even treated as a normal patient, just the same differential again and again.

I headed to the ladies’ room just to burst into tears. I didn’t know you wanted a urine sample filled with RBCs. I had a good reason for not doing the lab tests. I was furious. You’re the one who changed that appointment date. I called my mom and told her I wasn’t going to do any of these stupid tests, many of which I had done only a couple of months ago. My mom tried to calm me down, and suddenly I remembered I hadn’t asked for a sick leave. My mom asked if I could go to the other hospital for my one-hour rotation. No, I couldn’t. I wasn’t even wearing my scrubs and wouldn’t make it on time. I washed my red face, my eyes still puffy from crying. If I’m missing my rotation, at least I need to have that sick leave, even if I’m not doing the tests.

It’s not that hard. I just need to go back to Room 24, knock on the door, ask the nurse to talk to the doctor, and ask the doctor to give me a sick leave. Steps are clear. I washed my face again, still looking like I’d been crying. I did my best; I just had to be okay with it. I put on my face mask and started with Step 1. I got there, asked for the sick leave, and the registrar confirmed my name and sent it.

Now what? I asked my mom. She convinced me to do the tests since I was already there. I did the radiological test but couldn’t do the lab test because of my period. I asked the radiologist about the findings. They were normal. I knew they would be.