Doctor Dilemma

The first time I met Dr. Anna, it was love at first sight. On our first hourlong "date," she complimented me on my red sneakers, laughed at my jokes, and listened intently to a story about my ailing father. Nine months later, I went to see her about a spate of late-night trips to the bathroom. After a friendly chat, I left with a urine diary and the same giddy feelings I had after I first kissed my husband. (The bathroom episodes ended without medication.) My next visit wasn't so great. She was on top of issues such as bone-density screening, but the solicitous Dr. Anna of recent memory was nowhere to be found. I decided she was just having an off day. The fourth visit, a few months later, was like a bad date you can't wait to end. I went to see her because of heavy monthly bleeding. After reading my ultrasound, she told me I had a uterine polyp and fibroids, and instructed me to "go see Debbie" to schedule surgery. Whoa! Before signing up for surgery, I needed to understand what she was telling me: Is this urgent? Are we talking cancer? What are my options? She repeated in a clipped staccato: "Go down the hall and see Debbie." As she talked, she was opening the exam room door for her next patient. Walking past Debbie's office, I exercised my other option: I left.

Medical Strikeouts

Walking out on Dr. Anna was not the same as being free of her. I needed to know what had happened to my compassion-oozing medical crush. Or was there something about me that triggered her inner ice princess?

It was not my first failed relationship with a doctor. That would be my dalliance with an infertility specialist who gushed sympathy and persuaded me and my husband that IVF would be a waste of money and that the egg-donor route was best. Between my third and fourth egg-donor transfer, an ultrasound revealed fibroids that could potentially obstruct implantation. I scheduled surgery. Just before I went under, something I was given intravenously made me feel instant panic. I woke up with the same level of high anxiety and couldn't shake it long after the drug should have been out of my system. It turned out to be an adverse reaction to an anti-nausea medication, but the doctor made me feel as if it were my fault. "You were so calm before surgery," she said incredulously. A few days later, she left town for two weeks without telling me. When she returned, she called and gave me a full 60 minutes to vent while she apologized. The next day, she fired me from her practice by certified mail.

Before that, there was the doctor who wrote me a prescription for Prozac after I'd burst into tears during our first appointment. My mother had died only a few days earlier. Shocked, I didn't hesitate to speak up: "You don't even know me. I'm not a depressed person. I'm crying because...." Her impulse to prescribe medication without putting my tears into context was what turned me off.

But maybe it was me. I contacted experts in doctor-patient communication to analyze my medical mishap with Dr. Anna. I needed some new rules for finding -- and sticking with -- a doctor.

Good Timing Equals Good Chemistry

"If you want a doctor who listens fully, then you have to help create the opportunity for good chemistry," says Howard Beckman, MD, clinical professor of medicine and family medicine at the University of Rochester School of Medicine. "That starts when you schedule appointments." Looking back, I see that I should have told Dr. Anna's front office that I'd need some extra time to talk because I was worried about the bleeding, or at least asked how much time I'd have with her, so I could raise my most urgent questions early on. I also should have been aware of the difference between a 60-minute visit, scheduled as an extended appointment, and a "regular" 20-minute one. My last visit with Dr. Anna turned out to be a quickie, and I was beyond frustrated trying to cram 60 minutes of concerns into a 20-minute slot.

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