Why doctors annoy me

Almost to the day that I turned 35 my body started to fall apart, this meant that I got to spend a lot more time with doctors than I had in the first 35 years of my life.

Firstly, I was diagnosed with irritable bowel syndrome, which, if you have it or know people that have it, understand is annoying. I finally got a medical professional who could explain why my body was behaving that way, and that it was going to be a trial-and-error exercise around what I could eat, what I couldn’t and what other things I needed to know.

Then, I got diagnosed with depression, then PTSD, and then anxiety. I joked with the third medical professional that I felt they must be scoring bonuses every time they diagnosed something different. Unfortunately, they didn’t really put the time into explaining the difference between these three mental illnesses. Eventually, I had to do my own degree of research, as well as ask very direct questions of health professionals to understand what made them unique. It’s a classic example of me nodding my head, and the doctor interpreting that to mean I fully understand everything they say.

Next, I found out that the reason I was getting so out of breath when I exercised was that I had exercise-induced asthma. I mean, it was refreshing to find out that I wasn’t just super unfit. I could now pull the “I have a medical condition” card whenever someone wanted me to do something too strenuous.

After those gems, I passed out a couple of times. Once after a night of drinking with my cousin when I got up to go to the toilet in the middle of the night, and then a few months later at work (so I was sober). I went to a doctor who told me that it was vasovagal syncope. This doctor had a very strong accent and initially, I thought she was saying “weasel wiggles”, eventually she had to write it down. Her explanation to me was:

“Your blood pressure and heart rate drop, then you pass out, then it returns to normal. Nothing to worry about.”

• She seemed to not be bothered by this, so I pushed the point by saying “Ah look, the bit in the middle there, the passing out part, that’s a concern for me. I am not a small chap, so when I hit, I hit with a bit of a THUD!”

Because I was so pushy, she decided that she’d refer me to a specialist, although she selected a geriatrician, it’s worth pointing out I was 42 at the time. This specialist wasn’t too bad, she ordered more tests which resulted in a diagnosis of haemochromatosis, referring me to a haematologist to treat that. She also ordered a barrage of other tests which ended up with me going to see a cardiologist.

The haematologist was great, he explained things clearly and put my mind at ease with a lot of things. He understood that I was anxious and that I needed to understand why my body having high iron was dangerous. We talked about the treatment, and regular blood donations, which would mean me facing my fear of needles. It was a refreshingly positive change to find a medical professional that engaged with his patients.

That first cardiologist was, however, a rude asshole. On our first meeting, I told him that I was worried, so could he tell me what I needed to do so I would avoid getting a pacemaker. His response did not serve to calm me:

“Oh, you’re getting a pacemaker, it’s whether we put it in today or when you’re 80!”

I wasn’t having that opened ended remark, so I responded with “Well if I’m going to live to 80 without one, put it in then!”

Concerned about the implications of any heart condition I prompted more about whether it was safe for me to drive. Again, his arrogant response was, “I wouldn’t have you drive my kids to school”. All I could think was “just as well I wasn’t offering”.

Eventually, after visiting another cardiologist, I understood what vasovagal syncope was, it is when the body in a state of stress will drop the heart rate and blood pressure. There are things that you can do to manage it, and certainly, you can learn to appreciate the warning signs. That was useful information for me.

Now a few years passed and that brings us to this year. I had been trying to get fitter and had a Garmin watch to help track my exercise and heart rate. One morning I was awoken by my watch buzzing crazy on my wrist, when I looked it was alerting me to an abnormal heart rate of 37 beats per minute. Now that sort of a resting heart rate I might consider normal in an elite athlete, but not in a late 40s public servant.

I went to my doctor who agreed that sounded abnormal so ordered a halter monitor test. After wearing the heart monitor for 24 hours he called me back to inform me that overnight my heart rate was dropping to 35 beats per minute and that there were pauses between heartbeats of between two and two and a half seconds. Immediately he sent me off to another cardiologist.

This cardiologist walked in and asked me why I was there, I explained the basics and he started reading the referral. Initially, he said “Ok, so your heart is going slower at night. Are you worried about that?”

I figured this was a time to explain part of my cause for concern about heart health:

“My Dad died earlier this year from a heart attack, even though they were supposed to be checking him for it turned out he had heart disease. His sister died of a heart attack and had heart disease. His Dad died from a heart attack, and he had heart disease.

The heart doctor looked at me for a few seconds and then said, “Do you think you’ve got heart disease?”

I replied, “I don’t know, but I’m here talking to you about my heart health”

To which the doctor shot back, “Well why did you tell me about all those people that died from heart disease?”

I was getting irritated now and responded, “Because one of the first things you assholes ask me is if there is a family history of heart disease”.

The rest of the consultation didn’t go much better, he tried to tell me that I should expect my heart rate to be lower because I was young and fit. I had to point out that I hadn’t been called either of those things in quite some time. He didn’t help when he said, “Oh come on, you’re only 50-something” to which I immediately corrected him and said, “Hey, I’m 49!”

I insisted on further tests and to placate me, I was sent off for them. Eventually being told to talk to my GP to find out the results. When I went back, I was assured that everything was fine, well, except for the fact that the pauses between heartbeats meant that there might be less oxygen getting to my brain. Now, I will declare right now, that I don’t have medical qualifications, but I would imagine that my brain needs oxygen.

In the end, I’m none the wiser as to why my heart decides to basically go to sleep at night. I bought a watch that can do an ECG if needed, and I annoy friends and family in the medical profession to get their insights. Sadly, I can understand why people choose to “do their own research” and have difficulty trusting the medical profession. I do wonder if because they need to have a high degree of narrow focus if more doctors than we realise are somewhere on the autism spectrum and that’s why they struggle to engage with their patients. Either way, I’ve been left rather underwhelmed by the current health system.

I know that doctors are coming out of nearly 3 years of absolute hell with this pandemic, but we need to find a blend of positive outcomes for doctor and patient.