It’s DOCTOR Sweetheart

Video Version Here

Last week at an ophthalmology appointment, the young female receptionist called me “Sweetheart.” Twice. I didn’t like it.

I would never be rude enough to make a snarky comeback comment, but it got me thinking about my reaction and my sense of who I am.

I know that she didn’t call me “Sweetheart” as a way to demean me. I know that she didn’t mean anything by it. Maybe she thought this term was a good, all-purpose, non-gendered way to address all of the patients. I understand that it can sometime be hard to decipher a gender based on a name or appearance. Maybe she was taught not to use the patients’ names for privacy reasons.

But the term did immediately bring up some unbidden negative feelings. I know that others may not have had the same reaction, but that’s my truth, rightly or wrongly. It made me feel small, unseen, and belittled. It made me think that she saw me as a generic little old woman. Or a child.

As an aside, I posted about this encounter on Facebook, using only the word “Ugh” to describe my reaction. The responses were varied and interesting. Most women who commented felt similarly, as did some men. Many people felt the need to tell me that the receptionist didn’t mean anything by it. Several made joking remarks about how I should have responded. That’s all fine. However, I did not appreciate being told that I shouldn’t feel the way I felt. You really can’t tell a person that their emotions are invalid.

I think that I would have had the same gut reaction if she called me “Dear,” “Honey,” “Sugar,” “Babe,” or “Darling.” They are just too familiar for a professional setting. I wonder if I would have had the same reaction if a barista or grocery clerk called me “Sweetie.” It probably would have made me chuckle to myself and not cause the distaste I felt at an ophthalmologist’s office.

Which brings me to what I ultimately realized was going on for me internally. I was in a medical setting, and I was not in charge! And I did not like that feeling.

With some chagrin, I confess that in that same office visit, I made sure that the techs and the physician knew that I was a doctor. Maybe my hackles were on alert after the “Sweetheart,” and I felt the need to regain some power in the situation. But I think I have done this in most medical settings as a way to level the playing field.

Too, I want medical personnel to speak to me in our common language, and letting them know that I have medical knowledge gives them permission to speak to me as a colleague.

When Harvey was alive, I also made sure everyone we encountered in the healthcare world knew that we were both physicians. Was it a way of demanding respect that isn’t necessarily available to everyone with Alzheimer’s disease? Did I use this information to our gain? Probably. But why did I and why do I still feel the need to push for a higher degree respect just because I am a physician? I’ll have to sit with this realization for a while.

At the ophthalmology appointment last week, on the other side of a medical encounter, as a patient, I realized just how vulnerable patients can feel in medical settings. I felt that vulnerability enough to feel entitled to pull the “doctor card.”

At my next appointment, I won’t feel as deflated if I am addressed as “Sweetheart” again. Maybe I’ll return the endearment. Kindly.