For most of my life, I had somewhat problematic relationships with doctors. Mainly, I avoided them, operating on the youthful theory that I was young and indestructible. I was foolishly proud of the fact that I once went nearly a decade without seeing a doctor.
I came by my aversion honestly. I’d essentially been taught as a child that when you’re hurt, you rub some spit on the wound and carry on. My parents grew up in a time when rural doctors were rare, and people tended to rely on home remedies. Most of my childhood injuries, such as a busted knee and a torn ligament in my foot, went untreated by a professional.
When we did go see our family doctor, he was no Marcus Welby, MD. His manner was gruff and slightly arrogant, he chain-smoked during examinations, and he always seemed in a hurry to move on to the next person in line. When I was in college and developed an ulcer, his office initially refused to give me an appointment because my dad had yet to pay the $73 tab for a recent visit. I eventually got in, but by then I’d been in agony for over two weeks, and whatever was happening in my stomach was beginning to heal itself.
Later, when I was a cub reporter, I covered his arrest by the DEA. A local pharmacist had grown suspicious when large numbers of folks from out of state kept presenting prescriptions for Dilaudid, one of the heaviest and most addictive painkillers on the market. I was with the cops when they arrested a car full of people heading home to North Carolina with freshly filled prescriptions that had been written by my family doctor. After the car was pulled over, I saw one of them sitting in the back seat holding matches and a little aspirin tin he’d used to melt a Dilaudid tablet so he could shoot it up.
Between my parents’ reluctance to visit doctors and my childhood experiences with our family physician, I learned to be wary of doctors. I managed to make it through my 30s and 40s without much interaction with the healthcare system. But when I hit my 50s and had to go without medical insurance for a long stretch because I couldn’t afford it, I wasn’t so nonchalant. I knew I was a medical crisis away from financial catastrophe. Obamacare was a godsend, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I signed up. I had insurance again, and I knew I had dodged a bullet.
My attitude toward doctors also evolved. In 2014, my dad had hip replacement surgery at Piedmont Atlanta Hospital . . . three days before the infamous Snow Jam that shut down the city and left a million people trapped in their cars on the interstates for hours. The roads stayed iced over, and everyone at the hospital when the storm hit, including my dad, was stuck there for the next four days. The devotion of the doctors, nurses, and other staff during that crisis was impressive, as were their compassion and skill.
That, along with my parents aging, helped me come to terms with the fact that I had to get serious about my healthcare. Using a previous Top Docs issue as my guide, I found a primary care physician whom I really like. She can be blunt, but she takes the time to listen with genuine empathy. If something is off, I can email her via the MyChart page and she always thoughtfully responds. Most of all, she recognizes the importance of “care” in the word healthcare.
One thing that struck me as we put this issue together and I read the answers to a questionnaire we sent to physicians was the one quality they all shared: a passion for their calling and for the well-being of their patients. As my interactions with doctors grow, I find that comforting. I’m grateful that I’ve evolved beyond my unsettling experiences with my childhood physician.
We trust this Top Docs issue is a resource that will prove valuable when you need a primary care doctor or specialist. May you use it in good health.
Read the full story: Top Doctors 2024
This article appears in our July 2024 issue.
The post Editor’s Journal: How I repaired my relationship with doctors appeared first on Atlanta Magazine.