“You’re missing several years of medical data.”
He checked the screen.
“Records from when you were approximately 12 to 16 years old. There’s a gap.”
My stomach dropped.
“What do you mean a gap?”
“I mean your pediatric records stop abruptly at age 12, then don’t resume until you were 17. Four years of nothing.”
He looked at me.
“Do you know why that would be?”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t remember being sick during that time. I mean, I had the usual stuff—colds, flu—but nothing serious.”
He hesitated.
“Has someone been altering your medical file?”
The question hit me like cold water.
“What? No. Who would? Why would anyone do that?”
He showed me his screen, though I couldn’t make sense of most of it.
“These access logs show your file was opened multiple times from an administrative account. Changes were made to your patient history. Specifically, several diagnostic codes were removed.”
My brain felt like it was short-circuiting.
“I don’t understand. Why would someone remove diagnostic codes?”
“That’s what concerns me,” the doctor said. His voice was gentle but serious. “Sometimes family members who have access to patient portals make alterations when they disagree with a diagnosis or when they want to prevent certain treatments from being recommended.”
The room felt too small suddenly, too hot. My parents wouldn’t.
Except maybe they would. Maybe they already had.
“I want to run some more advanced tests,” he continued. “And I’m going to refer you to a neurologist. This should have been addressed years ago.”
Years?
My voice came out as a whisper.
“What do you mean years?”
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.
“Based on your current presentation and the progression of symptoms you’ve described, this isn’t something that developed in the last few months. This is something that’s been building for quite some time.”
The tests took two hours. Blood work, another neurological exam, something called an EEG, where they stuck electrodes to my head and told me to close my eyes. I lay there under the fluorescent lights, trying not to think about missing medical records and altered files and the possibility that someone in my family had been lying to me for years. When it was over, the doctor wrote me a prescription—the same one the campus doctor had prescribed—and handed it to me with very specific instructions.
“Take this twice daily. Don’t skip doses. Don’t wait.”
Then he handed me a referral card.
“I’m marking this as urgent.”
“How urgent?”
“I’m noting on your file that you should be seen within 72 hours. If they can’t accommodate that, call me directly.”
He wrote his cell number on the back of the card. Doctors don’t give out their cell numbers for minor issues. I walked out of the clinic with prescriptions clutched in my hand, and got them filled at the 24-hour pharmacy next door. I stood there under the harsh lights watching the pharmacist count out pills into an orange bottle, and felt something fundamental shift inside me. This was real. This was happening. And for some reason I didn’t understand yet, someone had tried to hide it from me.
My phone had been buzzing non-stop. I finally looked at it while waiting for my prescription. 17 missed calls. 32 text messages. Most were from my mom.
“Please call us. We’re worried. Come home so we can talk. Don’t be upset. We can fix this.”
A few from my dad.
“This is ridiculous. Stop overreacting. Call your mother.”
