Anna Morrison brought her husband, Blake Lincoln, into her doctor’s appointment with her for moral support. She was nervous, and understandably so. After years of mobility struggle, Morrison is increasingly convinced that she has postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, commonly referred to as POTS.
With her levels of exhaustion so exponentially worse lately, her heart rate increasingly irregular and her tendency to be abnormally dizzy on a regular basis, Morrison was ready to lay out, point by point, why she thinks she needs to be treated for POTS.
And she tried to. But her doctor wouldn’t listen to her.
“So, I’m pretty sure I have POTS. I have heart palpitations, I get tremors, migraines, I vomit a lot —” Morrison began explaining before her doctor cut her off and suggested a more consistent exercise regimen and a weight loss goal, two things POTS makes exceedingly difficult.
After she let out an exasperated sigh and glanced at her husband, Lincoln knew what he needed to do, but he took no pride in having to do it.
“Doc, listen!” he began. “We’re pretty sure my wife has POTS. She has heart palpitations, she gets tremors, migraines, she vomits a lot …” Lincoln paused, almost expecting to be interrupted at that point as Morrison had. But he was not, so he scoffed.
The dipshit of a doctor suddenly looked all concerned and said that it certainly seemed like Morrison has POTS, based on what her husband described.
When Morrison objected, saying that she had described the exact same symptoms, her fucking prick doctor then cleared his throat and said that what Morrison had described did not sound as urgent.
When Lincoln again echoed Morrison’s sentiment, the asshole doctor apologized for misunderstanding and commended Lincoln for being a concerned and devoted husband.