The Price of Doubt
Part 1, Please note, some names have been changed.
Maybe it began at a soccer game in Averill Park. The team won 3-0 and Ben scored all three goals. I brought home a happy, sunburned kid but ten other mothers brought home a boy with a tick. Or maybe it started at another soccer field, his Dad’s place in Berne, from the dog, the cats or maybe we’ll never know. But something bad had started to brew last spring.
One Sunday, a month or so later, he had a sore throat. Blood work was drawn, the throat swabbed and by Tuesday they called it strep throat. Thursday, at eighth grade graduation, the sore throat was gone, but he didn’t feel well and didn’t want to eat or celebrate with his friends after the ceremony. Ben just wanted to get out of the sun and lie down. By the end of the weekend he had stopped eating, ached everywhere, his vision off, sunlight was torture, he was dizzy and his head throbbed.
Our pediatrician, of over 20 years, Dr XXXXX and his partner Dr YYYYYY, either saw Ben or heard from us daily. Blood was drawn, x-rays taken, CT scans completed, blood drawn again and specialists seen. The list of what he didn’t have was long and whispers of depression and drug and alcohol use were starting to creep into the conversation, until the doctors started to say it out loud; indignant and arrogant in their conclusions and refusing to look further. Finally in mid July Ben saw Dr XXXXX alone and he exited the exam room with a script for Zoloft, an anti-depressant. In the car, my sick son ripped it up and said he was done with doctors. Tears slid down his face. Dr XXXXX hadn’t believed him. I ached for my boy. Down 8 pounds, pale, stumbling, hunched over, in pain and leaning on walls when he walked, it felt like Drs XXXXX and YYYYY stopped caring and had wiped their hands clean of us.
My phone calls to their office continued weekly throughout the summer until eventually they stopped calling me back. Ben was still ill; dizzy, headaches and pain. But he was eating better and some of the weight came back, thanks to daily ice cream shakes mixed with protein powder. I started to doubt my child, after all they said nothing was wrong with him, and kept encouraging him to get moving, go outside and maybe kick the soccer ball around. But Ben said the pain, headaches and vertigo were too much and he stopped trying. He refused to take anything for pain, remembering the accusations of drug abuse. Ben was too naïve to know or understand the difference. At some point in August, reality set in for both of us, trying out for the soccer team was not going to happen and even going to school was questionable. I kept calling and still they didn’t call back. I wrote a letter and the office manager called me. In her words, “Doctor does not consider phoning parents part of his job” but she would try to have him call me. I started looking for another pediatrician. In the meantime I brought him to a Dermatologist for his acne and they started him on Doxycycline. It was the one thing I could do. No one doubted his acne. It flourished on his face, chest and back, resistant to the mystery illness ruling the rest of his body.
School started and off he went, struggling, but getting through his days. He was a freshman at Albany High School. Eventually he started to feel a little better. The dizziness left first. He tried to play rec soccer but after the first game, his Dad carried him off the field and he went to bed for two days with bone pain, fatigue and headaches. But he kept going back every week, trying to get back to the boy he was last spring.
We finally met with our new Pediatrician, Dr. CCCCC. She believed us and a small sliver of hope peeked through the black cloud of disbelief that had been hovering over us all summer. More labs were drawn, tubes and tubes worth. She reviewed Ben’s case with her colleagues at AMC and with each new test result, she called me, but had no answers.
Late fall, we got his first semester report card and Ben had failed three core classes and we were called in for a meeting. Tears flowed from me and Ben, as teachers complained of my honor student falling asleep at his desk, not paying attention and lack of effort. Ben admitted that he was not able to do the work. Classes were changed and help provided. But some teachers never got past his first semester and no matter what effort he put forth, Ben could not win them back.
Part 2 to follow
Maybe it began at a soccer game in Averill Park. The team won 3-0 and Ben scored all three goals. I brought home a happy, sunburned kid but ten other mothers brought home a boy with a tick. Or maybe it started at another soccer field, his Dad’s place in Berne, from the dog, the cats or maybe we’ll never know. But something bad had started to brew last spring.
One Sunday, a month or so later, he had a sore throat. Blood work was drawn, the throat swabbed and by Tuesday they called it strep throat. Thursday, at eighth grade graduation, the sore throat was gone, but he didn’t feel well and didn’t want to eat or celebrate with his friends after the ceremony. Ben just wanted to get out of the sun and lie down. By the end of the weekend he had stopped eating, ached everywhere, his vision off, sunlight was torture, he was dizzy and his head throbbed.
Our pediatrician, of over 20 years, Dr XXXXX and his partner Dr YYYYYY, either saw Ben or heard from us daily. Blood was drawn, x-rays taken, CT scans completed, blood drawn again and specialists seen. The list of what he didn’t have was long and whispers of depression and drug and alcohol use were starting to creep into the conversation, until the doctors started to say it out loud; indignant and arrogant in their conclusions and refusing to look further. Finally in mid July Ben saw Dr XXXXX alone and he exited the exam room with a script for Zoloft, an anti-depressant. In the car, my sick son ripped it up and said he was done with doctors. Tears slid down his face. Dr XXXXX hadn’t believed him. I ached for my boy. Down 8 pounds, pale, stumbling, hunched over, in pain and leaning on walls when he walked, it felt like Drs XXXXX and YYYYY stopped caring and had wiped their hands clean of us.
My phone calls to their office continued weekly throughout the summer until eventually they stopped calling me back. Ben was still ill; dizzy, headaches and pain. But he was eating better and some of the weight came back, thanks to daily ice cream shakes mixed with protein powder. I started to doubt my child, after all they said nothing was wrong with him, and kept encouraging him to get moving, go outside and maybe kick the soccer ball around. But Ben said the pain, headaches and vertigo were too much and he stopped trying. He refused to take anything for pain, remembering the accusations of drug abuse. Ben was too naïve to know or understand the difference. At some point in August, reality set in for both of us, trying out for the soccer team was not going to happen and even going to school was questionable. I kept calling and still they didn’t call back. I wrote a letter and the office manager called me. In her words, “Doctor does not consider phoning parents part of his job” but she would try to have him call me. I started looking for another pediatrician. In the meantime I brought him to a Dermatologist for his acne and they started him on Doxycycline. It was the one thing I could do. No one doubted his acne. It flourished on his face, chest and back, resistant to the mystery illness ruling the rest of his body.
School started and off he went, struggling, but getting through his days. He was a freshman at Albany High School. Eventually he started to feel a little better. The dizziness left first. He tried to play rec soccer but after the first game, his Dad carried him off the field and he went to bed for two days with bone pain, fatigue and headaches. But he kept going back every week, trying to get back to the boy he was last spring.
We finally met with our new Pediatrician, Dr. CCCCC. She believed us and a small sliver of hope peeked through the black cloud of disbelief that had been hovering over us all summer. More labs were drawn, tubes and tubes worth. She reviewed Ben’s case with her colleagues at AMC and with each new test result, she called me, but had no answers.
Late fall, we got his first semester report card and Ben had failed three core classes and we were called in for a meeting. Tears flowed from me and Ben, as teachers complained of my honor student falling asleep at his desk, not paying attention and lack of effort. Ben admitted that he was not able to do the work. Classes were changed and help provided. But some teachers never got past his first semester and no matter what effort he put forth, Ben could not win them back.
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