Hot Doctor Syndrome Got You Tongue-Tied?
“So, what seems to be bothering you?” Taye Diggs asked a temporarily tongue-tied, younger me, as she sat on the exam table in her medical gown, which was open in the front.
Okay, it wasn’t actually Taye Diggs, but it was his doppleganger. It was my new gynecologist, whom I’d made an appointment with before knowing what he looked like. Had I known he would be disturbingly handsome, I probably would have chosen a different doctor to discuss my gynecological ailment with.
“Uhhh, nothing really, just a check-up, I guess,” I said, lying through my teeth, completely dismissing the vaginal itching which had caused me to make the appointment in the first place.
This was not the first nor the last time I was on an exam table, excited to finally get seen, diagnosed, and treated, only to mysteriously “forget” the details of my discomfort when the doctor made their entrance.
“Hot doctor syndrome,” which I define as, the struggle to communicate what is really ailing us, is not just caused by good looking doctors. Sure, a devilishly handsome doctor just happens to be one thing that has curbed my candidness in the past. But there are many other causes for this syndrome.
For many of us, revealing aspects of ourselves which we consider private, to anyone, is enough to bring out our inner editor. Some aspects may be so private, or buried so deep in a blanket of shame, that we might not fully understand them. We don’t know what we don’t know, right?
While hot doctor syndrome can look like many things—shyness, embarrassment, sweaty palms, racing heart, flushed face, an inability to tell the truth—be reassured to know that there is a cure: good, old-fashioned honesty and transparency.
While some doctors are pleasant to look at, no doctors are mind readers. Even with the best that diagnostic testing has to offer, a doctor won’t know what to test for if we don’t tell them everything. And when I say “everything,” I mean EVERYTHING.
What we may think is nothing, inconsequential, unrelated, may actually be a helpful clue into helping us heal.
For example, if you tell a doctor you have persistent headaches, but omit the fact that you also experience constipation, mood swings, or that you have recently changed your diet, the doctor may not have a lot to go on. “Headaches” alone might warrant an Rx for “Excedrin, the headache medicine,” but may not bring you any closer to resolving the root cause. Without all the information, “persistent headaches” could get easily misdiagnosed. You may be experiencing migraines, or tension and stress, or a symptom of celiac disease, or dehydration, or lack of sleep, or allergies, or…. You get the idea.
The clues we usually omit have a seemingly-unrelated effect on our health, such as the everyday stresses of life, or past traumas—things that have become part of the furniture, we just assume they’re irrelevant. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.
You may think your toxic job, past trauma, or stressful home life may have nothing to do with your headaches. Our nourishment (or lack thereof) comes from all sources around us, past and present.
It’s so important we communicate everything, and push for air-time when we have our five minutes with the doctor. Our current medical model encourages doctors to prescribe something as quickly as possible (“You have heartburn? Here, take Nexium!”), leaving little time for the patient to reflect and get to what might be at the heart of the ailment. So, don’t be afraid to speak up!
Even the best doctors who spend time listening can’t know us as well as we know ourselves, so share, share, share!
My classic mistake has been, when I’d finally get my two minutes of face-time with the doctor, I’d tell them all my physical symptoms, and what I thought was physically responsible for them—what I’d been eating, what supplements I was taking, and so on. But I’d leave out my emotional state, almost as if it were a side note. Just as the appointment would end, I’d finally mutter out, “Oh, and yeah, I guess I’ve also been upset lately, I just went through a breakup.” Usually when that would happen, the doctor would look up from their notepad, and give me that, “I think you just diagnosed yourself” look.
As I’ve gotten older, I started to include all facets of my emotional and physical wellbeing upfront whenever I see a doctor. I stopped curating what I wanted my health story to look like (not just to them but to myself). I stopped cherry picking which symptoms I felt were most significant. Instead, I started to say everything. By doing so, I tapped into what was really ailing me, while giving the doctor a clearer picture to work with.
With age, I also became more comfortable with my body, in all its imperfections and malfunctions. I no longer have trouble telling a doctor about my poop, yeast infections, nor do I mind scooching, butt naked, even further to the edge of the exam table (women, you get me). This process involved accepting myself, prioritizing my needs, and quite frankly, adapting an increasingly limited tolerance for bullshit. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. My number one priority now is feeling my best, and that won’t happen if I edit my symptoms for fear of seeming “gross.”
Besides, odds are, if I’m on a gastroenterologist’s exam table, they’ve probably heard a lot worse.
Go easy on yourself if you are a more private person, and work on taking baby steps to share a little more at each opportunity. No need to go from 0-60 overnight!
Let yourself have health needs, and let yourself be comfortable needing help and sharing the parts of yourself you want to heal. Know that nothing about you is gross or weird. Having needs does not make you “needy,” nor does needing help make you “weak.” No one thinks the less of you or your car when you get the oil changed.
As for hot doctors, don’t ever hold back, especially not with your doctor (I don’t care how hot they are), whose sole job is to help you feel better (and if not, find a new doctor).
A good doctor will probe you with lots of questions, maybe even very private, embarrassing questions. Although it may feel invasive, remember, this is your moment, not to shy away, but rather to say, “Yes, Taye Diggs, I do have some unpleasant vaginal discharge! And P.S., I’m also gassy AF. Now what are you going to do to help me?!”