The Art Of Perfectly Timed Catastrophising, As Told From The Doctor’s Office
What you learn from a situation outside of your control but very much rooted in your fears.
I have white coat syndrome. I walk into a hospital or a doctor’s office, and suddenly, the Earth melts below my feet.
My legs turn to liquid. My heart begins to race uncontrollably. My ability to stand on two feet, comprehend what someone is saying to me or breathe when any regularity leaves me.
My fear stems from boring, old childhood trauma. I spent years in and out of the emergency room with a heart murmur. As the murmur could have caused my heart to stop, these trips to the hospitals were always panic-filled. Teams of nurses and doctors filled my emergency room. After checking in, they parked the defibrillator next to my bed. Needles came at me like I was a pin cushion.
The idea of walking into any medical facility sends impending doom shooting through me.
I know it’s not rational. Try telling my body that.
It means any time I need to visit the doctor, it’s an ordeal.
Like you, I initiate most doctor’s appointments. I’m the one who needs to refill a prescription. I’m the one that has a problem that needs looking at. It’s not usually the doctor telling me to come in.
But in the last week of August, the receptionist at my clinic dragged me into the office at the behest of my physician.
It should’ve been a run-of-the-mill appointment. Yet, it ended up being a debacle that taught me much about life.
A persistent text message
“You have non-urgent results,” the text message read. “Please make an appointment to see your physician at your earliest convenience.”
What a strange message. I had no pending results; it wasn’t like I had forgotten blood tests or scans. The message was legitimate, though.
It didn’t make sense why they would need to see me. But, I reminded myself how I could get my prescriptions renewed simultaneously. It would be killing two birds with one stone.
What would possibly be the problem?
It will be the last time I express such a sentiment before a doctor’s appointment.
After speaking with my husband, we reasoned there could have been technical errors. A message sent by mistake, we thought. It is best to roll with the instructions, we agreed.
I made my appointment to see my regular doctor, whose availability proved scarce, and, with little patience, waited for the day—only ten days, far from torturous.
A changed appointment
Two days before the scheduled appointment, I received another text message. This time, the message informed me my doctor was unavailable.
“Appointment cancelled. Please call or rebook my appointment online.”
I checked when her next appointment availability was. It wasn’t until September, eight weeks later.
Considering the text message said it was a non-urgent results appointment, I didn’t think September would be an issue. If the problem were pressing, the text messages would cease, followed shortly by frantic phone calls. Considering that wasn’t happening, I continued to believe everything was fine.
If this were a scary movie, you would find yourself screaming at the screen, telling me not to run up the stairs as the killer followed me.
I wished it was this obvious at the time.
A barrage of phone calls
It was the beginning of August, an ordinary week, and within three days, I had three phone calls from the clinic. And my doctor.
Call number #1
The Receptionist: “Your regular doctor has left the clinic and gone elsewhere. I can’t tell you where she has moved to.”
An explanation, I mused. But her departure didn’t change the fact I needed to see someone for these so-called results.
After explaining to the receptionist I wanted to see a female doctor, she suggested I take a lot at the clinic’s website. I could read the biographies of the other doctors and find someone I like. Agreeing with her, I did and booked myself an appointment.
Call number #2
The Receptionist (a different one to the first call): “Your regular doctor has left the clinic and has gone somewhere else.”
I went to interrupt; I already knew this information. Thankfully, my manners saved me.
“The text message you’ve received isn’t to get results. It’s the clinic’s way of alerting you to the National Cancer Screening Register (in Australia) reminder. They issued a reminder for a Pap smear.”
After changing my booked appointment to a test appointment, I hung up the phone, hiding my confusion.
I knew I didn’t need a Pap smear. In 2020, my doctor, the woman who departed the clinic, asserted I didn’t need my next test until 2025. This was after three years of repeat Pap smears, biopsies and surgery removing precancerous cells.
I distinctly remember the phone call from my doctor telling me the news. A person doesn’t forget a doctor’s declaration of your clear health.
It had also been a triumphant moment for my white coat syndrome. In the middle of tough Melbourne lockdowns of 2020, I braved the travel restrictions to visit my doctor for this pre-emptive Pap smear two weeks before it was due.
I was proud of myself. The doctor didn’t have to chase me.
A million questions raced through my mind, all questioning how this dilemma faced me. I was organised, I completed the pap smear, and I was cleared. Why did the Cancer Register think otherwise?
Call number #3
My former doctor: “I’ve been notified you need a pap smear. Please get in touch with me at my new clinic to make an appointment.”
Ugh, I remember thinking. Going to a new clinic for an unexpected pap smear was not a journey I could handle—one hurdle at a time.
The d-day appointment
Panic engulfed my body the day before my appointment. My mind constantly debated all the potential outcomes. Would I need a Pap smear? Would this new doctor understand my predicament? What was going to happen?
The night before my appointment, my husband could see my concern growing. As the hours drew closer, he saw how the unknown was not helping the situation. He also knew the debilitation my fear caused me.
My husband offered to drive me to my appointment, which I begrudgingly accepted. There’s no denying I’m married to a fantastic man.
Walking into the appointment, this new doctor, with her kind face and comforting eyes, asked me about needing a Pap smear.
“So, that’s what you’re here for today?”
I nodded. But then I turned to her and quipped, “I don’t understand why I need a Pap smear. I know why we need them in general, but I’m not sure why I specifically need one now.”
I explained the situation, in which she promptly turned to her computer and began furiously typing. She searched my details within the registry’s online database and studied my problem.
After reading referral letters from the surgeon and the results from my 2020 test, she reached a conclusion.
I didn’t need another test.
“Let me ring the registry whilst you’re here and halt the reminders.”
As she was phoning them, she took my blood pressure. And the moment the cuff began to deflate, I heard her voice drop. The person on the other end of the phone, from the registry, delivered the news I dreaded the most.
The registry hadn’t made a mistake. I did need a pap smear.
Before I knew it, I was on the doctor’s bed, sans pants, with escalating blood pressure.
The doctor was incredibly kind about the entire experience. I didn’t blame her for her hesitation when she delivered the verdict. She knew it wasn’t the news I wanted to hear.
But I told her there was no point in waiting or booking another appointment. I was here, ready, and we might as well get it over and done with.
Her apology was sincere. It wasn’t her fault I was in the situation. It was my departing doctor’s fault. She hadn’t conducted the test in 2020 correctly, failing to tick a box on the form. It meant the screening didn’t cover everything it should have to clear me.
One tick box, that’s all it took.
The worst of the worst
It was one of the worst doctor’s appointments I have ever had.
I’ve had terrible appointments; the day a surgeon told me my gall bladder had to come out troubled me. The day my gynecologist body shamed me, recommending a diabetes clinic to me based on my weight, sickened me.
But I had never gone to an appointment and rode the emotional rollercoaster like I did that day.
At one point, I could predict the outcome of this appointment. The next moment, I’m relieved and ready to waltz away, unaffected. And then a few moments later, I’ve got high blood pressure, and I’m lying on the doctor’s table, half-naked.
And all from one text message about “results” I didn’t think I had.
I will never forget my husband’s sympathetic face waiting for me after my appointment. For him, I’m eternally grateful.
The moral of the story
This isn’t a reflection on the process of going to the doctor, having a Pap smear, or taking care of your sexual health. Don’t let my experience put you off those things.
It’s all about getting ready.
Reflecting upon the entire situation, I realise the only thing that saved me during that appointment was that I was ready.
From all those phone calls, I mentally and physically prepared myself for needing the Pap smear. I envisaged walking into that appointment and the worst-case scenario playing out. And that’s precisely what happened.
Many people will warn you against catastrophising a situation. Don’t do what I did, they say.
Experts in motivation won’t advise you to imagine these worst-case scenarios. You’re inducing anxiety and stress about something that might not even materialise.
Whilst I understand the philosophy, I can’t ignore how a healthy dose of catastrophising helped me in this situation. I didn’t crumble when the doctor declared I needed a Pap smear. I didn’t begin to sweat, panic or worry. I got on with the appointment.
I felt a mini sense of relief. It was everything I predicted might happen. My worry and concern were worth it.
I shudder to think what would have happened had I not engaged in a bit of catastrophising.
The other moral of the story
Whilst I’m not here to admonish doctors or any of their processes, they screwed up in this situation. The people designed to help me made my life harder.
It’s a painful realisation, but the people in our lives meant to help us aren’t always going to do the right thing for us. They’re human. They’re not always going to get it right.
It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t trust doctors. It’s not the lesson I’ve walked away with. Yet, if I had my time again, I would have double-checked things back in 2020 and perhaps asked more questions, too.
It might not have worked. I’m aware my double-checking can still result in errors. Yet, at least I would know I did all I could—peace of mind.
And another moral we can’t forget
Every moment in your life, small or incredibly overwhelming, we can learn from. We can adjust our lives to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself. We can learn from the mistakes of others.
We don’t need to go to school to learn these things. We don’t need to suffer significant losses or achieve massive wins to learn. We’re better off hunting for the lessons in the mundane.
I’m not going to stop learning from these moments. I want more of these moments to happen in my life.
With fewer pap smears, though.