An Open Letter to Presumptuous Care Providers

Dear Care Provider, I am not a number on a chart, a line copied from your medical textbook, nor a statistic that always fits into carefully written criteria. I am a human being with emotions, dreams, goals and a life outside of your small exam room. I am so much more than that diagnosis code you entered into your medical files. When you see me for those brief moments once a month, you seem to make such vast assumptions about my existence. You assert your opinion on my emotional ability to deal with my illness firmly, as if your perspective is the only possible truth. You ask me how I believe I am coping with my situation, to which I state my conviction, but you do not hear me. You have already written your opinion in my record and have already made your judgment even though my belief is contrasting to your own. "Depressed. Anxious. Moody. Emotionally Distressed." These words now ring out loudly in my chart, ones I do not believe are true. A definition of myself that you decided after only having met with me for a fleeting moment. How could these words possibly not be true you assume, I mean, look at this life she is forced to lead: oxygen tanks, feeding tubes, central lines, chemotherapy, mobility aids, constant pain, crushed dreams and a terminal prognosis at the age of 24. This is all you see, the professional patient that I have become since autoimmune disease overthrew my life. You see a name on a chart, a laundry list of medications, an upcoming appointment list with ...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news