10 weeks ago, I posted a story about my current healthcare situation (“Let’s Talk About Healthcare” on June 27). I had just had my initial appointment with the Chatham-Kent Health Alliance (CKHA) psychiatrist, and it did not go well. I left disappointed, distressed, dejected. All I got out of the appointment was a 10-week follow-up.
Well, summer and the 10 weeks flew by, and I had my follow-up this week. In the car on the way to the appointment, a 30-minute drive on the 401, I had a panic attack. I was so worried about the outcome of this appointment, because the first had gone so poorly. I won’t run through the gamut of what my brain was thinking, but I was struggling to breath, and was just praying to be able to get through the appointment.
I had calmed down by the time I got to the office, and went inside. My appointment was for 11:30, and I was called back about 5 minutes early. I was prepared, without sounding rehearsed. I had regrets from the first meeting, so I was determined to not have that happen again.
The doctor asked how I was doing, and I told him. I said that I was treading water, doing the bare minimum that I have to do, but nothing more. My consulting contract expires in less than 2 months, and there has been no discussion of an extension or renewal, which is causing untold anxiety. I’m worried about my kids – I’ve spent over $1000 in the past month in vet bills on their various ailments.
The doctor zoned in on the job situation. Just keep doing your job well, and they’ll renew you. Not so easy Doc – there are doubts about the long-term viability of the joint venture for whom I work – I could be the best damned CCO in the world, and that wouldn’t save a doomed relationship among the principals. So then get a plan B: start networking, and find a new job. This guy is supposed to be focusing on my mental health, and he’s offering me platitudes reminiscent of LinkedIn. And with that, he dismissed me, after a quick throw-away comment that he wasn’t going to change my meds. And he’ll see me in 10 more weeks. I was out the door in less than 5 minutes, even before my scheduled appointment time.
So I sat in the parking lot and sobbed for about 15 minutes – certainly longer than my appointment lasted. I have plenty of people in my life who would help me, if they could. Who care enough to help. But my issues are above their pay grade. They aren’t trained to deal with mental health, and none of them can write me a script. Here is a living, breathing doctor, who theoretically can help me, and he just won’t. He doesn’t care. He’s going through the motions, punching a clock, checking the box. But he couldn’t care less whether I live or die. And this is what we get for mental health care in Chatham-Kent, and possibly Ontario writ large.
I miss Dr Hoffer, my (retired) shrink in Toronto. He was unconventional, to say the least. But he talked to me. He took the time. And if something wasn’t right, he would adjust my meds and get me back to a better place. He was a mad scientist, a maestro with the pharmaceuticals. Above all, I truly believe he was invested in my success as a person. I wasn’t just a line item on an OHIP invoice. And that, my friends, is what I’m feeling like right now. I’m a commodity. And it doesn’t matter if this new guy loses me as a patient, because there’s a 15-month long waiting list lined up behind me. So I’m an expendable commodity. That’s not a good feeling to have.
RC Country Life 