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The Importance of a Second Opinion

Updated: Jan 7, 2022


You might want to consider taking the kids and going back home to Buffalo. Your husband will no doubt be here for quite some time.


I just stared at his baby face, his hair falling over one eye and thought Fuck you! You’re wrong. We should never have called you—just out of residency wet behind the ears Fuck you!


We were standing just outside Sherm’s room at an inpatient mental health facility in New Orleans. I could see Sherm, bent over staring at the floor, fidgeting, his fingers busy at some unknown task. Eyes blank, dark circles from weeks of almost no sleep.


I said I wanted another opinion. What I meant was You’re off the case. I’m getting another doctor ASAP!


Ok, said young Dr. A, as he walked briskly down the hall. I went back in the room. I said Sherm, he’s too inexperienced. I’m going to find you another psychiatrist. Are you ok with that?


Well ok. I guess. Blank eyes.


I hugged him and set off on my mission.


Sherm was in his second year of ophthalmology residency—just embarking on eye surgery. During his very first cataract on his own, with his mean attending doctor at his elbow shouting orders—he lost vitreous. His hands were shaking. He lost the vision in that person’s eye. He was not the first newbie eye surgeon to fail, of course, but he took it hard and his cruel supervising physician’s reaction didn’t help. This same horrible man caused Sherm’s fellow resident, Sandy, to have a heart attack at 30 of few weeks previously. He was a terror in the hospital. But the real problem began that night and continued over the many nights thereafter. No sleep at all. Just tossing and torment. Pills worked only for an hour or so. Finally, ten days later, I caught him injecting himself with something. I called a halt. He was not fit to go in to the hospital. Who did he want to call. Dr. A, the young just-out-of-residency psychiatrist friend who would keep it to himself. I called. We were to meet him at the facility. Now.


The children, 3, 6 and 8, were wide eyed. I took them next door. I remember standing there at Marge's front door hoping she was home and would take them in. I found myself sobbing. She did.


Now on my mission, I sat in the car outside the facility. I called Sandy, as this was his home town. I need the name of a good psychiatrist. He didn’t know one, but trusted his internist uncle would. By now it was after work hours, getting dark, and when I tried the office number, leaving a message seemed like a waste of precious times. I got his home address from Sandy and drove right there. Standing outside in the dim light over the door ringing the bell, I tried not to appear like the hysterical woman I was. He opened cautiously and I explained that Sandy was a friend, and that all I wanted was a referral to a good psychiatrist. He relaxed, gave me the name and said he would call ahead.


The next morning I talked to a man with a reassuring voice, Dr B., who said that Sherman must request him or he wouldn’t feel comfortable stepping in. When can you come? This morning at 11, if that’s ok with you? Yes yes YES!


I dropped the kids off at their respective schools and went directly to the facility. Sherm, I have a doctor coming at 11 to see you. You have to tell Dr. A that you want to see him. He seemed relieved and said he would. Dr. A came, looked annoyed, but left with a shrug and an ok. It was almost 11 and I watched as the two doctors passed each other in the hallway.


Doctor B entered the room and I left. Twenty minutes later, he came out, patted my arm, and said I can help. But we have to get him out of here and into the hospital I use. Sherm was elated. Thus ended his time in a locked facility.


Within 3 weeks, Dr. B had Sherm back at work, and within 4 weeks, Sherm had a good cataract surgery under his belt. He continued seeing Dr B through the rest of his residency. I turned back to my books and passed the exams for my MA.


We left New Orleans for California that year and never looked back.






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