“I understand, but these restrictions were put in place when you were a minor. You’re over 18 now, but the flags are still active in the system.”
She opened the folder, showing me pages that were almost entirely redacted. Black bars covered most of the text.
“I can request to have them unrestricted, but it requires authorization from whoever set the restrictions originally.”
“My parents.”
“Most likely, yes.”
I stared at the censored pages, my own medical history hidden from me behind black bars and parental override codes.
“Can you at least tell me what years these restrictions cover?”
She checked her computer.
“Ages 12 through 16. Four years.”
The same gap the urgent care doctor had noticed.
“That’s very unusual,” the receptionist added, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation. “Most parents don’t restrict access to routine medical records.”
“What about appointment history? Can you tell me if I had appointments during those years, even if you can’t tell me what they were for?”
She hesitated, then typed something. Her eyebrows went up.
“Oh. Yes. Quite a few appointments, actually. Multiple specialists. Neurology, definitely. Some with—”
She squinted at the screen.
“Looks like a genetic counselor.”
My heart was pounding again.
“A genetic counselor? Why would I see a genetic counselor?”
“I can’t access the notes. I’m sorry.”
“What about the pharmacy? Can you see what prescriptions were written?”
More typing, more uncomfortable frowning.
“There were several prescriptions written during that time period, but they were all cancelled or never filled.”
“All of them?”
“According to this, yes. Someone with parental portal access marked them as patient declined or family requested alternative treatment.”
“But I didn’t decline anything. I didn’t even know I needed treatment.”
“Can you tell me what the prescriptions were for?”
“I can’t see the specific medications. Those details are behind the restriction.”
I pulled out my current prescription bottle. Was it this? Was one of them this medication? She glanced at the label, then back at her screen. She wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.
“I really can’t say.”
Which meant yes. Which meant years ago doctors had tried to prescribe exactly what I was taking now and someone had prevented me from getting it.
I left the hospital in a daze and called the neurologist’s office from my car. They could see me tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. if I was willing to come in for a cancellation slot.
“Yes,” I said immediately.
Then I just sat there trying to piece together the fragments of information I’d gathered—the missing records, the canceled prescriptions, the genetic counselor, the years of silence and lies.
My phone buzzed. The pharmacist’s name appeared on the screen. I’d given him my number when I picked up the prescription.
“Miss Patterson, this is David from East Side Pharmacy. I have some concerning information about your medication that I think you should be aware of.”
“Okay.”
