I had the biopsy, which showed a severe infection. No cancer.
The doctor, (who was a surgeon) released me from the hospital with some antibiotics, and told me that I would need a specialized surgeon because “This is very serious and life threatening, and it is sitting right on your carotid artery. The surgery is too risky for me to do, because my insurance costs would go up.”
Wouldn’t you think something so life-threatening would require immediate surgery? Evidently not. He told me he would “get back to me” with a referral, which took another 5 days to get to a head and neck surgeon. By the time I got to the surgeon, I was so sick and weak, that I was unable to stand. One particularly bad night, when I didn’t think I would survive the night, I actually wrote goodbye letters to my family.
Luckily, the surgeon was wonderful, took one look at it, and immediately knew it was an infection, and stated that he couldn’t believe I was still alive with such a severe infection that lasted so long. He admitted me to the hospital immediately, did the surgery the same day, removed the infection, and left the wound open to ensure no bacteria would be trapped in there.
In the end, I was on antibiotics for over 6 months, had a half-dollar size hole in my neck, and it took two years for my immune system to recover. Thanks, doctor.
5/11. I was writhing in severe pain, after presenting multiple evenings in a row with severe stomach pains to the same (military) doctor, who kept sending me away with antacids, which I consumed in copious quantities as I wandered the corridors of the military barracks, sleepless and in pain. (Later I learned that I had acute ulcerative oesophagitis that would have been much less severe, had it been treated earlier.)
The doctor stood by my bed looking baffled and frustrated, and asked me, as if I were a major inconvenience to him:
"What do you want me to do about it?"
I managed to squeeze out, between grunts of pain: "I believe the traditional process is diagnosis, followed by treatment."
6/11. My biological mother's doctor was a quack, guilty of more malpractice in just a couple of years than I've seen over the rest of my lifetime thus far. (I used to work for a medical malpractice claims company, so I know whereof I speak.)
My mother made me go to this man; even as a young child, I knew he was experimenting on several of his patients because I overheard his conversations. (continued...)