Lesson One: Sometimes You Need To Dump Your Doctor

When Dr. G., Savannah’s first endocrinologist, and I parted, the tension was palpable.  She obviously wanted me – the note taking mother – to just take her sick child and GO, but her massive ego interfered.

“I told Dr. Jacobs you were going for a second opinion, and he told me, ‘Maria, she’ll never find a doctor as good as you,’” she boasted within earshot of the teaching fellows.


I remained quiet, fearing we’d meet again.  And we did.  She moved two blocks from my apartment.

“I’ll never forget your case,” she always says at our run-ins, poking for an update.

Rehashing the summer 2005 with the haughty South American doctor is comparable to a vet’s flashback.  There are no good memories.

I begged.  I pleaded.  Had a damn near nervous breakdown in her office.  Still, she ignored the warning signs – chronic low blood sugar, jaundice, and low thyroid – until a near fatal seizure landed my five-week-old in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit and they rigged her head-to-toes with wires.

It was scorching hot that summer and nerves were frayed.  “No more questions,” she barked over the hospital bed when she finally arrived from the Hamptons, a long two days after Savannah been admitted to the hospital.

Then, beaten down and scared, I didn’t have the confidence to tell Dr. G to f— herself.  But, two months later, when Savannah was officially diagnosed, I was starting to find my mommy voice.  I realized she was using Savannah’s case as a learning opportunity, so dumped her.

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