Dreams: Accessible and Inclusive Medical Care

I dream of a world where I can go to the doctor and be seen as my true self.

I dream of a world where I can go to the doctor and be seen as my true self.

I construct elaborate worlds in my mind, scenarios my brain plays through to calm itself before appointments. What are my goals? What are my questions? What zigs and zags could possibly occur in our conversation, and how would I respond? Will I be questioned about my hormone therapy in an eye appointment? It is wise to be openly queer in an orthopedic appointment? The onus is on me to share what needs to be shared, and nothing more.

I try to mix in some hopeful scenarios, too. What would happen if the receptionist asked about my access needs? How would my experience change if I felt comfortable enough to share that my sensory sensitivities are significant barriers to my care? What if my doctor encouraged me to communicate with them in a way that works for my brain, taking the time to look through the brief printed-out medical summary that I carefully compile and personalize for each new specialist, as if I were tailoring a resume for a potential employer?

I imagine going to the gynecologist and being examined on a table that doesn’t injure my hips. I imagine being gendered correctly and being given control of my experience. I imagine a world where all the anxiety-inducing scenarios I expect to happen, don’t happen, and those I hope for, do happen.

Autistic patients are detail-oriented. We like to know everything about everything. We learn about new things to cope with them. We have trouble controlling our tone of voice. We often don’t look like we’re in pain when we are. I have constructed scripts for these scenarios, too. This is what being an autistic patient is like: I desperately need to be prepared. I desperately need to understand.

I imagine a world where I can disclose my Autism diagnosis to a new provider and be met with compassion, not confusion. A world where an Ehlers Danlos Syndrome diagnosis doesn’t automatically block me from being seen by the doctor on call. A world where I am treated with dignity as a transgender patient- one where I do not dread the invasive questions I know I’ll get, regardless of my “chief complaint.” I don’t want to dread reading my doctor’s notes about me, wondering how many sets of pronouns they will cycle through in one paragraph.

So much justifiable fear leads me to fracture myself, break myself apart, and hide pieces of my true self from providers whose job is to help me.

I do not want to hide. I want to be seen. I need to be seen, fully, before I can be helped effectively.

I imagine a world where doctors are not gatekeepers but catalysts, collaborators, willing to learn and create a better quality of life for me, with me.