My son called from the hospital. Dad, the doctor is refusing to treat me and says I’m faking my symptoms for drugs. When I arrived at the ER, the doctor’s smug expression disappeared and he whispered, “Chief of surgery. I didn’t realize he was your son.” The call came at 3:47 a.m. on a Friday morning while I was reviewing surgical schedules for the upcoming week. My son Ethan’s name flashed on my phone screen and my chest immediately tightened. Ethan was 22, a grad student at State University 3 hours away, and he never called at this hour unless something was seriously wrong.
Dad, I’m at Mercy General’s ER. His voice was strained, tight with pain. I’ve been here for 2 hours, and the doctor won’t treat me. He keeps saying I’m faking my symptoms to get painkillers. Dad, something’s really wrong. It hurts so bad I can barely stand. I was already grabbing my keys. What symptoms? Tell me exactly what you’re feeling. He took a shaky breath. Started around midnight. Sharp pain in my lower right abdomen. It’s gotten worse every hour.I’m nauseous. Threw up twice. I have a fever. I tried to explain my symptoms, but the doctor just kept asking about my drug history, looking at me like I’m some junkie. My hands went cold. Lower right quadrant pain, nausea, vomiting, fever. Classic appendicitis presentation. If it was appendicitis and they weren’t treating him, his appendix could rupture. That meant sepsis, peritonitis, potential death. Who’s the attending physician? I demanded. Dr. Vance. Dr. Leonard Vance. He won’t even examine me properly.
He did this quick palpation, barely touched my abdomen, then told the nurse to give me Tylenol and discharge me. Dad, I’m not making this up. Something’s wrong. I was already in my car backing out of the driveway. Don’t let them discharge you. Tell them your father is Dr. Garrison Mills, chief of surgery at St. Catherine’s Hospital, and I’m on my way. Do not leave that ER, Ethan. If your appendix ruptures because they delayed treatment, people are going to lose their medical licenses.
I’d been chief of surgery at St. Catherine’s for 8 years, a general surgeon for 23 years before that. I’d seen every complication, every delayed diagnosis, every case of medical negligence that ended in tragedy. And one of the things that made my blood boil was when doctors let their biases override their clinical judgment. Young male patients presenting with abdominal pain were often dismissed as drug seekers, especially if they had tattoos, piercings, or looked like they might use recreational substances.
Ethan had both arms sleeved with tattoos, wore his hair long, and had a nose ring. He looked like the stereotype that lazy doctors use to justify not doing their jobs. But Ethan was also brilliant, kind, and had never touched hard drugs in his life. He was finishing his masters in environmental science and spent his weekends volunteering at wildlife rehabilitation centers. The idea that some arrogant ER doctor had taken one look at my son and decided he was a drug addict without doing proper diagnostic work made me want to put my fist through something.
