*This is a reprint. This poem was originally self-published in Shell Walsh’s poetry collection, Hallways: A Journey through Grief, Trauma, and Love.
“Have you tried to exercise more?”
“You probably need to drink more water.”
“You’re a mom; you’re supposed to be tired all the time.”
“You’re too young for that.”
“It’s anxiety.”
“But you look great!”
“It says here that you have a history of PTSD.”
“You need therapy.”
“When was your last menstrual period?”
“Try:”
“Zoloft”
“Wellbutrin”
“Ambien”
“Lexapro”
“Diazepam”
“Lorazepam”
“You’re only going to feel a small pinch.”
“This is really going to be painful.”
“It’s all in your brain; your brain thinks it is sick, but you’re not.”
“You’re just burnt out.”
“I don’t need to see all your medical history.”
“If it’s not in your family history, there is no
way you could have that; it’s genetic.”
“It could be MS.”
“It could be Parkinson’s.”
“It could be Lyme disease.”
“It’s clearly fibromyalgia.”
“It’s not fibromyalgia; that’s a fake diagnosis.”
“You need to go to a geneticist for that.”
“I don’t treat that.”
“Didn’t you say you had anxiety?”
“It’s just anxiety; you need to calm down.”
“Try meditating.”
“Try acupuncture.”
“Try vitamin infusions.”
“Try injections.”
“Try Botox.”
“Your labs look great!”
“Your labs look great!”
“Your labs look great!”
“You need a headache specialist.”
“You need a neurologist.”
“You need a neurosurgeon.”
“You need iron infusions.”
“Your insurance will deny this.”
“That woman is insane. I can’t believe she is a doctor.”
“I know you waited 8 months for this appointment,
but you should never have been scheduled
with me.”
“I’m going to write a script for an MRI.”
“You need a CT scan.”
“Let’s do some x-rays.”
“YAWN, I’m the wrong doctor for you.”
“Your insurance will only approve this if your labs look
really bad, so you need to stop all medication for 5 days before you go.”
“Your insurance denied this medication.”
“Your brain surgery couldn’t have caused that.”
“It’s just anxiety.”
“It’s just anxiety.”
“Have you completed the depression questionnaire?”
“That doctor is an idiot; don’t listen to him”—throws copy of entire medical history into the trashcan.
“That medication is backordered.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the only treatment.”
“You should be grateful it’s not Huntington’s disease because then you would want to kill yourself.”
“Try:”
“Gabapentin”
“Mirtazapine”
“Baclofen”
“Topamax”
“Lyrica”
“You need a movement disorder specialist.”
“You need to see an infectious disease specialist.”
“Try another antidepressant.”
“Try another antidepressant.”
“Try another antidepressant.”
“When was your last period?”
“Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”
“That’s not typically a side effect.”
“Are you depressed?”
“Why would that be prescribed to you?”
“You need to take the medicine longer to know
if it will work.”
“We don’t know why.”
“Whoops.”
“A long time ago they used to call what you have hysteria,
but we really try to not use that word now.”
-Female provider at Jefferson at the end of our first and only visit.
Shell Walsh (she/her) is a mother, artist, and licensed therapist who writes to heal and to help others do the same. Based in New Jersey, she lives with her loving family and four cats, drawing strength from the quiet resilience of daily life and the creative process. Through her writing, Shell offers a safe space for survivors, those living with invisible illnesses, and anyone searching for connection in the wake of pain. She has previously published a debut poetry collection, Hallways: A Journey through Grief, Trauma, and Love. Shell’s work has also been featured in Death Wish Poetry Magazine, Bloodlust Magazine, and Persephone Literary Magazine.
Instagram: @philomenas.rising; @hallways.shellwalsh