The WebMD Of Doctors

WebMD is the curse of the modern age. If you think you have strep throat, WebMD convinces you it's actually throat cancer.  Got a migraine headache?  No, according to WebMD, you have meningitis and brain tumors, possibly both at the same time.  Also, maybe your dog died.  However, most of the time if you simply talk to a medical professional of some sort, your concerns are put to rest.  But not always...sometimes, doctors are just as bad as WebMD, and because they aren't on the internet, it seems even worse.

In 2007 I ran into a whole slew of health problems.  I had a brain disease that was a single, not too terrible occurrence.  Yes, it screwed with me, yes, it sucked to get sick, and sure, it has had a pretty substantial impact on my life ever since.  But it wasn't deadly, and when a doctor starts to talk about your brain as a 'site of infection', the words "not deadly" suddenly sound pretty damned comforting.

When I first got sick, I had no idea what was wrong.  I was at college, spiked a 106 degree fever, and was basically an ebola patient (Aside from the whole 'death and projectile bleeding from every pore on my body' part). The whole story of my rescue from illness involves my good buddy Beardo, a long and complicated hospital visit, and many more side tales, so I'll cut to the point before I get sidetracked: I was sick, I went to the hospital, and they found that I had lesions on my brain when they gave me an MRI.  On a scale of 1-10, brain lesions are basically an 11.5 with fire ants on the side, in terms of scariness.  Not much fun.  After that, I went home from college.  My parents and I were on rocky footing (another story for another time) but the really important thing was that they were extremely supportive throughout this whole mess.  They arranged my doctor's visits for me, did research online, and took care of me when I felt like disease and death incarnate.  Then one day, the week before Christmas, I met a doctor who can only be described as 'Ghengis':  She rampaged through my life, pillaged and burned, and her last name may or may not have been Khan. And I'm not 100% sure, but I think she may have conquered China at some point.  My history's pretty rusty, though, so maybe she just ATTACKED China, but didn't conquer it all. In any case:  Dr. Ghengis=scary doctor.

Dr. Ghengis' office was located in a nice side-building of the town hospital. A week before Christmas 2007, my parents and I showed up for my first appointment with the neurologist-of-doom, Dr. Ghengis, and stepped into her brightly lit waiting room.  We were quickly ushered through the entrance, and placed in an examination room for the doctor to come.  Dr. Ghengis was, we were told by her assistant, waiting on a final printing of my newest brain MRI scan before coming to talk to us.  And so, we waited.

And we waited.  We aged, the moon came and went through its lunar cycle, the seasons passed and I witnessed the beauty of spring ten thousand times over, and eventually after what felt like aeons beyond aeons, Dr. Ghengis showed up with a half-eaten sandwich and my brain scans folded up and tucked under her arm.

She sat down and I expected some sort of preamble, or introduction:  "Hello, I'm Dr. Ghengis, and I'll be your doctor." would have been great.  "I'm Dr. Ghengis, and I'm about to ruin your fucking day!" would've sufficed even.  Instead, she ignored all introductions and launched into the possible diagnoses by listing a dozen diseases in such rapid succession that I only caught snippets of their names.  "You show lesions symptomatic of *garbled phrase* disease, *snippet of the word 'myelin'*-itis, perhaps brain cancer, ALS, or lupus." The only thing I knew for certain, after her speech, was that Dr. Gregory House might be proved wrong, because Lupus might seriously be an option.  The rest of her diagnoses?  I didn't understand, because I'm not a neurologist.  My confusion meant that I was going to have a lot to ask about, but when I began to ask questions, Dr. Ghengis cut me off and started down her next uncomfortable list. This time, she listed the various tests I needed to now immediately undergo.

She locked eyes with me, almost predator-like, and said, "We're going to need to do some tests.  Maybe a spinal tap, or lumbar puncture.  Perhaps multiple." She ignored the utter terror and confusion I was obviously feeling, and continued with, "we'll also need some brain scans, blood tests,-" I admit that I sort of blacked out in terror for a moment, so it's possible she didn't actually say it, but I distinctly remember also hearing her mention, "ripping the soul of your unborn children from your body with scalpels and rusty hacksaws" before she finished with, "-and a urine sample."

Then she clapped her hands together, as if somehow congratulating herself for getting through the entire meeting in under 5 minutes after letting us wait for 50 years.  She leaned back in her chair, locked eyes with my dad, and said, "So anybody have questions?  Because I know this is all pretty complicated, but I think we should probably hold off on more diagnoses until after the new tests get back." Her offer of questions led my parents and I to spend the next hour and a half barraging her with questions, concerns, asking for clarification and details.  To every question we asked, she'd respond, "I don't feel confident in anything yet, let's just wait and see." When asked about the possible tests I would have to undergo, she would sarcastically respond, "It can be pretty unpleasant, but it's better than the alternative!" because apparently making death jokes is a good idea for doctors.

At the end of our meeting, my parents and I walked out of the office, numb.  I knew that I had a ton on my plate the next day.  I would give enough blood to feed a hundred starving vampires, have my brain scanned enough to give me radiation poisoning, be attached to what seemed like thousands of electrodes to see how my head still worked, and give enough urine samples to start my own bottled 'water' company.

But all I said was, "She wasn't a very comforting doctor, was she?" My parents immediately comforted me and told me I was going to be alright.  And they were correct, though it took over a year to get an actual diagnosis. We got it from a doctor less Ghengis and more Mr. Rogers.  When he told me the diagnosis, I cried with joy, because it meant I wasn't going to die, and  when he asked why I was so HAPPY about a diagnosis that still involved possible brain damage and pain, it was my dad who spoke up: "Doc," admitted my dad, "it's nice to get an answer that doesn't involve the word death or cancer."

The doctor was shocked at why my dad had to say, and asked, "Who the hell would tell you something like that? Never use WebMD for diagnoses, it gives you too many scary options!"

Now it was my turn to speak up, and with a great deal of bitterness in my voice I argued, "Sometimes, WebMD is better than doctors.  It doesn't make jokes, and actually answers my damned questions!"

Dr. 'Mr. Rogers', as I think of him, actually laughed out loud.  "If your doctor is making jokes or being unclear, they must be some sort of idiot!" My mom, dad, and I were silent.  None of us disagreed.


Hopefully this story amused you!  And don't worry, I'm healthy and doing just fine! 
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Thanks always for reading!
-Brian, the Author guy