Title pretty much sums it up — my doctor won’t see me anymore. I guess the reason I’m posting is to ask for advice, because I didn’t realize doctors were even allowed to refuse patients until I went through this. But they totally can.
I (26F) was booted off my parents’ health insurance six months ago. I got on Medicaid and had my first routine check-up with a new doctor shortly after. It was fine. Good vitals, no symptoms of any serious conditions. The doctor was professional but a bit curmudgeonly, like most doctors. The receptionist was helpful when I signed out, and there were no issues whatsoever. Then I went to McDonald’s because I was feeling ironic. It was a good day.
So I was really confused when I went back today to see about a rash on my arm and nobody would look me in the eye.
When I signed in, the receptionist slid over my documents without saying a word. I didn’t think anything was weird at that point because the waiting room was pretty busy, and it’s not like I was there for the customer service. However, when I asked her for a pen, she got up from the desk and vanished into the hallway without speaking. It bruised my ego a bit, but I figured she was just having a bad day. So I found a seat and filled out the forms with a pen I borrowed from the guy next to me.
Then I waited. It felt like they were never going to see me.
I swear, waiting rooms zap the joy out of your body. The sound of coughing kids, the pale stares of sick people who should absolutely be wearing masks, the Disney movies they play on TV. I watched at least 3/4 of Finding Nemo before the nurse finally called my name.
She took me into the vitals room and checked my weight and blood pressure. She wouldn’t look at me, either. Then I got to the examination room, and after an eternity, Dr. Bradley came in.
“Hello again, Charlie,” he said. I was surprised he remembered me. “What brings you in today?”
I showed him the rash. I explained that I thought it was just dry skin at first, but when I moisturized, it got darker. What had started as a faint pinkish patch had turned into a red continent above my elbow. I decided to go to the doctor when I noticed the edges turning purple.
He looked at the rash and then at me.
“Charlie, do you have a psychiatrist?”
This confused me. I said no.
“I can refer you to someone. I won’t speculate about a diagnosis, but the erratic behavior after your last visit concerned me.”
At this point I was convinced they had me confused with another Charlie.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember your last visit?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the police?”
“What are you talking about?” I laughed, confused. Dr. Bradley was obviously mistaken.
“Charlie. You stripped naked at the end of our visit and cartwheeled through the waiting room.”
I thought he was joking, but his face did not change.
“I definitely didn’t do that,” I insisted after a solid minute of silence. “I would have been arrested.”
“You were,” he said. “But you seem better now.”
At this point my head was spinning. It felt like a prank. But from a doctor?
“Dr. Bradley, I was definitely not arrested. What are you talking about?”
He sighed as he pulled on a latex glove and took my arm in his hand.
“It’s okay Charlie. Let’s get this looked at.”
He examined me and then exited the room, and I was left dumbfounded. I took out my phone and looked at my Instagram story archive from the date of my last doctor’s visit, and sure enough, there was a snapshot of my McDonald’s meal. I hadn’t gone to jail.
After a few minutes, Dr. Bradley reentered the room.
“I’m going to have to refer you to a dermatologist. It should be safe to apply Neosporin. I’m sorry we can’t do more for you today.”
“Dr. Bradley, what do you mean I was arrested?” I asked, showing him my story and the date.
His expression shifted from sympathetic to concerned.
“This is from six months ago. You were arrested one month ago.”
“But I’ve only been here once!”
He furrowed his brow, then turned to write something on a slip of paper.
“Please call this number when you get home. Alvarez is a good psychiatrist who can get you the help you need.”
And that was that.
I drove home with a pit in my stomach. I couldn’t tell if I was losing my mind or if the doctor was wrong. When I got back to my apartment, I practically ran to the computer to Google my own mugshot.
And there it was.
July 10, 2023.
My face. A wild grin, pupils wide as the moon, dark hair flying in all directions, saliva streaking down my chin.
I immediately opened Snapchat memories, heart pounding. Then it stopped. On July 10th, I helped my friend move apartments in another city about an hour away. We hauled her shit all day and then had a sleepover at the new place.
I called her to corroborate.
“Chrissy!” I exclaimed when she picked up. “Remember when I helped you move?”
“Uh… yeah?”
“Thanks.” I hung up on her and then dialed the doctor again.
“Hi, this is Charlie Putnam…” I began. The speaker cut me off.
“Please do not call here again. You are no longer welcome at the practice.”
She hung up, and I listened to the dial tone, still staring at the mugshot. My own eyes bulged out of the screen.
So then I decided, fuck that doctor. I’m gonna ask Reddit what they think.
Should I see the psychiatrist? Should I call the doctor again? Help!