The Doctor Didn't Believe My Symptoms. But I Was Right

One day, when I was 19 years old, I swung my legs out of bed and felt a twinge in my lower back. It didn't seem like that big of a deal, but within two weeks, I was having trouble walking.

Later, I discovered I had a herniated disc in the L4-L5 part of my spine, located on the lower right above the tailbone. At the time I had horrible sciatica from this herniated disc and my right leg became pretty much useless.

A couple of weeks after the onset of the symptoms I went to see a doctor in Oakland. Immediately, the doctor did not believe me. I don't know whether it was because of my age, or my Hispanic name, but his attitude appeared to be that I was pill-seeking.

This took place before the opioid epidemic had really started to be discussed, so many doctors were still throwing pain pills at people like candy. Yet I couldn't even receive an MRI scan—which would have proved whether I was faking my pain very easily.

I believe that even before the opioid crisis, there was medical discrimination in which doctors decided whether you need treatment based on whether you fit neatly into their criteria box. And if you don't fit perfectly into that box, they won't even entertain the idea that you're telling the truth.

I had really good health insurance, but for months after the onset of the pain, he continued to refuse to let me undergo the scan.

Eventually, I received an MRI and was diagnosed with a herniated disc. Once my doctor saw the results he changed his tune incredibly quickly. I was given a Vicodin prescription, but I never received an apology from the doctor.

After my diagnosis, I was told that my condition would heal itself, and could take anywhere between six months to ten years.

I was a teenager staring down this completely debilitating injury. It was impacting my entire body and felt impossible to get past on my own. Before my pain began I was an athlete, and was always proud of my strength and my ability to play sports.

But almost overnight my life radically changed. I became this person who laid down most of the time, my friends stopped inviting me places because I was always in pain. I even lost my job as a barista because I wasn't cheerful enough.

My mental health had nosedived in such a short space of time, so when the doctor gave me that news, I just looked at him and said: "You're telling me my entire 20s could be lost to this? And you feel that's acceptable, when there are things that could be done?"

Eventually—with the help of my mom—I was able to push them into letting me have treatment to help ease the pain of my herniated disc, and when that failed, I underwent spinal surgery in 2011.

After the procedure, I was essentially told not to move for six weeks and to be careful for eight weeks. Those eight weeks passed and at the end of my recovery period I started college in Los Angeles.

My first week at school was going great, until suddenly I got this awful headache that only went away when I laid completely flat. Luckily, my mom happened to be visiting because of a family issue, and she took me to the emergency room.

It kept happening over and over again, but all my doctor would do is give me the base medication for migraines—800 milligrams of ibuprofen—shrug and say: "There's nothing we can do."

Five minutes into my first appointment with that doctor I suspected his treatment of me was due to bias about my age and ethnicity. When you're used to microaggressions, you're very good at picking them up in someone's words and body language.

Often, it's almost as if their eyes go blank, their face gets very set and you get these very short answers, with an air of condescension that sneaks in there.

At this stage, I had very little experience in the medical system because I'd been very healthy up until that point and so didn't know how to advocate for myself. I took the ibuprofen prescription and left.

My headaches repeated for seven nights and the pain was so bad that I could not eat. On the eighth night, my mom took me to the ER and after seeing that, once again, the doctor was not interested, she furiously left the room.

I don't know what she said, but she demanded these doctors treat me and when they came back in they finally offered me morphine, which worked to ease my pain instantly.

Ultimately, I was the one to diagnose myself in this situation. After I was given the medication—even though they had all my information and medical records—I said to my doctors that I thought this pain had something to do with my spinal surgery.
Eventually, I was given a CT scan, and sure enough, I was leaking spinal fluid.

They didn't do anything about it, they just advised me to lay down again for a few more weeks before it corrected itself.

On one hand, I realize that doctors are human beings and there's always going to be human error. However, I feel that the problem is largely down to inherent bias, and the fact most doctors believe they do not have it.

Of course, there are patients that are faking it and pill-seeking. However, I believe these patients are often doing so because they are in pain—I don't think that should automatically mark you down as an addict.

The aftercare following my surgery was fine. I was given an eight-week supply of Vicodin and medication to aid my digestion, which was adequate. I had no problem stopping taking it once the pain was gone.

My health was good for a long while, but when the pandemic started in 2020, my husband and I were living in a very small apartment and there wasn't really anywhere to go. I was lying down a lot, doing my work from my computer constantly and not really getting much exercise.

I believe that the muscles protecting my back weakened, and coupled with the fact that that injury still exists in my body, the pain began to squawk at me again.

I knew full well that I could not walk into a doctor's office and ask for pain medication, because post-opioid crisis, not only would I not be given them, I feared a note would be added to my file saying that I was drug-seeking.

Instead of being given anything for my pain, I was recently given an antidepressant called Cymbalta, which allegedly changes the way your brain processes pain. Before starting this medication, I was not properly advised about the side effects that come with it—particularly when I eventually stop taking it.

I have come across stories of people who had what are known as brain zaps while coming off certain SSRIs, which is something I wish I was told before I took that first pill, because it might have impacted whether I was willing to do so.

Living with this pain for the last few years has taken a big toll on my mental health.

The physical side of it is constant, and I think people around you develop empathy fatigue; they're sympathetic at first, but eventually—when all you do is complain that you're in pain—it can become harder to handle.

However, if I was to stop complaining about my pain, people would assume I was better, so it's a Catch-22.

I believe problems with the medical system start in medical school. To become a doctor, the process is insane. They work insane hours, they get very underpaid in the beginning, and they're taught by doctors who have been through this meat grinder for a long time.

They're taught by doctors who likely have their own biases. And sometimes these biases can be extreme. For example, the belief that Black women don't experience pain the same way that white women do.

I believe it's the same reason that obstetrics and gynecology generally perform incredibly painful procedures without any pain medication offered. In some states, it is still legal to perform pelvic exams on unconscious female patients without their consent in training hospitals.

In my opinion, the end result of this training process is new doctors inheriting the biases of their mentors. Plus, I think they're often overworked to the point where it's very hard to retain empathy.

I think the root of the issue is doctors being tormented to succeed in their profession, and I don't believe it should be that way. I feel that if the system was less difficult for practitioners, then kinder doctors would be produced.

And I think kindness is a big part of what's missing.

Anna Acosta is Chief Operations Officer of WeAccel and the host of the Smart City Diaries podcast.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

As told to Newsweek's My Turn associate editor, Monica Greep.

Do you have a unique experience or personal story to share? Email the My Turn team at myturn@newsweek.com.