My story begins the weekend before the Fourth of July. We were celebrating at our friend, the window guy’s, house on June 27th. Tom decided to have the party a weekend early because this year marks the 250th anniversary of our country, and he knew the holiday weekend would be packed with other celebrations.
That Saturday, I had a stinging sensation in my neck and my arm was sore. I was rubbing it while I drank a few wine coolers and enjoyed the food and great company. Our friend group is made up of all types of wonderful, down-to-earth, regular, hard-working, real red-blooded Americans, anyone from a school teacher to a roofer, down to the guy sitting at our table showing us what seemed like the hugest backhoe in history.
As the day went on, I continued to feel worse pain. The next day, I had to work an 8:00 to 4:30 shift at Sam’s Club. In the mornings at Sam’s, we stock. Stocking means getting a pallet jack, lifting 50-plus-pound boxes of clothing, and arranging the tables so they look neat and shoppable. I also use a folding table, doing repetitive movements to tidy up the department. By the time my shift was over, I was in so much pain I could hardly give my friend a goodbye hug.
Mondays I’m typically off, and that is my day to do work around the house, laundry, cleaning, and outside work now that it’s summer. I felt really banged up, but just blamed it on a pinched nerve. I’m pretty resilient and have a high tolerance for pain; I don’t go to the emergency room unless I am in dire straits. But when Tuesday morning rolled around, I couldn’t take it. The pain was so utterly bad that I knew something was seriously wrong.
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I think I arrived at the Frick ER around 9:30. I was seen by a lovely young emergency doctor who sent me directly for an MRI. I’ll spare the details of the MRI because it was excruciating. I couldn’t lay flat and had to have a tilt in my neck, but after a grueling 15 minutes, the results came back: a herniated C5-C6 cervical disc with stenosis.
To be honest, I was devastated. I thought immediately, there’s no way I can go back to work like this; I will reinjure myself. My right arm was tingling and in pain all the way down to my hand. My stomach sank. I’ve always had this theory that if I want more, I’ll just work more, but that idea collapses when you have a serious injury.
The ER doctor checked my mobility and strength, and felt I was a good candidate for outpatient physical therapy. He referred me to a practice at Excela Latrobe. Now, to give a little preface: I worked for the hospital for many years. I started in registration, and when the Affordable Care Act came through and part-timers lost insurance, I took a two-pay-grade cut to move into Medical Records for a full-time position. I am familiar with the medical field.
I had muscle relaxers and steroids from the ER, and I had to get through the Fourth of July weekend until the 6th to see the referred neurosurgeon. It was a rough weekend, but I made it through and arrived way before my 8:45 a.m. appointment at Excela Latrobe. I brought a close friend along, my advocate. Thank God I did.
When I showed up, I asked the front desk, “Where is Dr. Salvadip?” because that was the name on my paperwork. The receptionist told me he was no longer there; he had only been brought in to set up the new doctors. That was fine. I was just happy to see a neurosurgeon because the clock was ticking on my Sedgwick FMLA paperwork. I had been promised by the office staff on the 2nd that they would fill it out “with ease.”
My advocate and I waited until about 11:30 to be called back. Having worked in health care, I understand that once a schedule falls behind, everyone falls behind. I didn’t complain. But when the doctor finally walked in, I’m not sure if he ever shook my hand or told me his name. He just sat down, flung the monitor showing my MRI at me, and asked, “How do you want me to fix you?”
I was stunned. He then said, “You know smoking deteriorates your bones and causes bone loss.” I told him I understood that, but I wasn’t looking to jump into surgery right away; I wanted conventional routes like physical therapy and maybe a localized shot. He then asked, “What do you do for a living?”
When I told him I work at Sam’s Club with 50-plus-pound boxes, the discussion remained cold. I kept waiting for someone to ask how I was doing. When I presented my FMLA paperwork, the visit turned into a fight. He flatly refused to touch it, saying he “didn’t have time for paperwork.”
I was baffled. When I worked in registration, we jumped through hoops for patients, obtaining correct scripts, reaching out for diagnosis codes, squeezing people into stress tests. We didn’t turn people away. Yet, when I left the exam room, the front desk staff backed him up, repeating that they “don’t do paperwork.”
It took my advocate standing her ground to explain that this wasn’t a request for disability or worker’s comp; it was standard FMLA to keep my job. The staff even started complaining about how patients come in asking for paperwork “they don’t deserve.” I couldn’t believe an administrative clerk was acting as the moral arbitrator for a patient’s medical needs.
With a lot of coaxing, they finally agreed to fill it out “this one time only.” It was clear the receptionist filled it out and the doctor just signed it. They granted me leave from July 6th to August 17th. I was thankful, but I couldn’t understand how an office could be so dismissive of something so essential.
My friend and I left the office and joked about our appearances, trying to rationalize why we were treated the way we were, talking about how we both looked presentable, how we were polite, how we were just trying to be responsible. When I arrived home, I called Sedgwick; they had received the paperwork. My FMLA was granted. I was off work without pay, but at least that part was solidified.
I waited for the steroids that were promised to be sent to my pharmacy. I stopped checking my app at 7:00 p.m. Nothing. I didn’t expect them to come. For whatever reason, I was a nuisance to that office that day, and filling out four pages of paperwork was, in their eyes, a burden I didn’t deserve.
The next day, I was still without meds. I wasn’t about to call them back to ask for muscle relaxers. Then, on a family text thread, my aunt, who happens to be corporate counsel for the hospital network, asked how the visit went. I told her the exact story I am telling you now: the dismissiveness, the coldness, the refusal to help. I realize I am in a different position than most. Most people do not have a relative in a position of power to fight for them, and I didn’t expect her to jump in. But she did. She reached out to the chief medical director, who, it turned out, was already aware of this doctor’s behavior. It made me feel a little better to know it wasn’t just me.
By 2:00 p.m. that afternoon, my pharmacy pinged with a notification: the steroids were ready. An hour later, the office called about the epidural steroid shot.
I am lucky. I had an advocate. But what if I hadn’t? I would have been left in pain until I could see my own PCP. That visit was a complete revelation. My PCP took over his father’s practice in our small town; he is down-to-earth, kind, and thorough. When I walked in, he asked, “Were you able to get the neurosurgeon to fill out your FMLA paperwork?” as if he already knew it would be a battle. When I said yes, he immediately took over, giving me a script for physical therapy three times a week. It was like the heaviest bar had been lifted off my back.
The juxtaposition is astounding.
So, where is health care going? I don’t think I have the answer, but I have the experience. When the very backbone of this country, the people who do the jobs that keep things running, gets injured, they should be met with assistance, not suspicion. It makes me realize that the money it costs to become a neurosurgeon, and the intelligence it takes to get there, will never buy the one thing a patient actually needs: kindness.
He profiled me. He looked at my job, looked at my MRI, and perhaps decided I wasn’t a “high-stakes” enough patient to be worth his time. But integrity and human decency shouldn’t be optional. To all the early-morning crews, the laborers, and the retail workers who keep this world moving: don’t let anyone make you feel small for needing to heal. Stand up for your dignity, because that is the one thing no doctor has the right to take away from you.
Jennifer Constance Hart is a patient advocate.
