The GPS told us we had arrived, but there was nothing there but a group of buildings, none of which had the name of a doctor or a group of doctors. Finally, Guy pulled into a parking garage, and we went inside a building that looked as if it was part of St. Thomas Hospital. We stopped the first person we saw and asked if he knew where 300 20th Avenue North might be.
“Sure, that’s the name of this building. Turn left and go straight down this hall.”
By the time we found the location, we had made a circle around Church Street, Charlotte Avenue and Patterson and had almost stopped speaking.
We waited for an hour and a half. Periodically, Guy looked at his watch and I glanced at the clock on the wall. With each moment beyond our appointment, I became more and more agitated, thinking about how far we had driven and how disrespectful the doctor was for keeping us waiting. Since our arrival, one person had come out of the office and one had gone in. Two others were waiting, one who came after us and the other before. At this rate, it would be another hour before seeing the doctor.
Having brought medical records from the many different doctors who have tried to solve Guy’s headache problems (Don’t mention I wrote about it), I said, “Maybe she’s reading your medical reports.”
He sighed. “What doctor does that on the spot? She’ll probably tell me to come back after she has had time to read them, which means another trip.” Then he looked at me the way a parent might look at a child. “I’m giving it 10 more minutes and then I’m out of here.”
I didn’t deny I felt the same way, but we hadn’t driven all this distance to leave.
“If we have to sit here until midnight, we’re not leaving,” I declared.
I went to the desk and asked if we were next. The lady said, “It takes a little time to go over that information, so she’ll be with you soon.”
Was she really looking at what we brought? I went back and told Guy to chill.
When the nurse called his name, we forgot about the misery of waiting. This doctor was the first who said she was looking for the source of his problem and not a way to ease the pain.
“You can’t treat what you don’t know.”
I wanted to hug her. Every other doctor tried many treatments, none of which worked. Here was a person who was going to look for the source!
After blood work and much discussion, we left feeling as if there was hope. We forgot all about the wait, and I would have kissed her feet for what she suggested might be the problem – all treatable.
Finding the right doctor might mean going through many of them, but when Guy was ready to give up, I wasn’t. Whatever the health problem may be, there is a doctor somewhere to help. I hope Guy has found the right one.