Hospital Chronicles Part Three: No Thank you.

Day Six – The Cancelled Surgery and the Gaslight Parade

A Hospital Experience So Absurd It Deserves Its Own Comedy Special

By Antonia at Unremarkable Me

Tuesday morning rolled around, and for the first time in over a week, I was feeling a little better. The fever that had held me hostage had either broken or was being held at bay by medication. I still couldn’t sit upright for more than a few minutes without the room doing a full rotation, but relatively speaking—I was surviving.

And I was ready for, Surgery.

That was, of course, until the senior doctors returned from their long weekend away. While they’d been off enjoying their bank holiday doing anything but medicine, the junior doctors had been managing my meningitis, seizures, neurological symptoms, and pain.

But now the seniors were back. And with them came the great undoing of everything the juniors had done to help.

Apparently, I’d responded so well to treatment that surgery was now off the table.

“No need to have it done now,” they said.

Just like that. No scan. No review. Just vibes.

Enter: Top-Tier Medical Gaslighting

Let’s start with a classic:

“You don’t look like you have EDS.”

Oh, cool. So you can identify all thirteen types of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome just by looking? That’s amazing—especially considering 95% of your colleagues don’t even know there are thirteen types.

Next gem:

“If you’re losing your hearing, how come you can hear me?”

Because, you gaslighting nugget, I can read lips like a bloody professional. We’re in a quiet room. There’s no background noise drowning you out—though honestly, that might’ve been a welcome relief.

Then came the pièce de résistance:

“Your new scans are inferior.”

Sorry—inferior? The word you’re looking for is unremarkable. And let me tell you: I’ve never wanted to be more unremarkable in my life.

Apparently, a neurologist would be along shortly to explain how my 13mm Chiari malformation meant absolutely nothing.

Which was news to me.

The Symptoms They Skim Past

When I was first diagnosed, my herniation was 5mm. Since then, my symptoms have gone from persistent to psychedelic: seizures, meningitis, and a brand-new stammer. I now go from forgetting what I was saying mid-sentence to physically not being able to get the words out. Grate!

Over the last three years, I’ve slowly lost the ability to walk or stand for more than a few minutes before gravity yanks me down a peg or two. Oh—and let’s not forget the daily migraines throwing underground raves behind my eyeballs.

But sure. It’s just migraines.

The Backstory They Don’t Want to Hear

I asked whether this neurologist was from the same hospital—because not all medical encounters are created equal. And here’s why that mattered.

Back in 2022, my migraines levelled up. I was rushed into hospital with suspected meningitis and diagnosed with Chiari Malformation and spinal cord compression. Then I caught COVID while inpatient, and everything stopped.

No follow-up. No outpatient support. Just a hard reboot to factory settings: discharged into the void.

I begged my GP for a neurology referral. She agreed. I waited six months. A letter arrived: appointment scheduled for August... 2025.

Yes. A two-and-a-half-year wait.

By Spring 2024, things had deteriorated—badly. Memory loss. Fine motor issues. Nine-day migraines that disappeared for 48 hours and came back like an emotionally unstable ex. My GP chased it again.

A miracle: I got a call. A neurologist had a plan. Scans. Bloods. A review in 3–4 weeks.

Hope.

Then... nothing. Weeks turned into months. Christmas passed. Every call met with the same robotic chant:

“You’re on the waiting list.”

Eventually, I broke:

“Please. Just listen.”

And someone did. Turns out my neurologist didn’t have a secretary.

No secretary meant:

• No appointments

• No scans

• No follow-up

• No action

I burst into tears.

“So the reason I’ve been waiting six months is... a staffing error?”“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because I half-expected someone to jump out yelling, “You’ve been punk’d!”

I got an appointment two weeks later. Dragged my half-broken body to meet the new head of neurology, clinging to optimism like a wet tissue in a hurricane.

It was a disaster.

He’d made up his mind before I sat down. Rushed the exam. Dismissed my symptoms. Dictated into his little recorder that my Chiari “wasn’t an issue.” Just migraines.

I asked questions. He shut me down. Said he’d be advising my GP to ignore the Chiari entirely.

I sat in my car for an hour afterward, stunned. I had dared to hope. Naively. Thought someone might finally help me.

The Neuro Consult That Wasn’t

So when I heard that same neurologist’s name again, I knew exactly where this was going.

I asked repeatedly for a referral to another hospital. I was denied. Told I had to see him—or someone from his team.

I said:

“No thank you.”

Because let’s be real—this is a university hospital. When the head of department has no up-to-date training in Chiari, no one beneath him is going to stick their neck out in dissent.

And shocker: I was right.

A doctor came. No exam. No questions. Just a neatly recited version of her boss’s opinion.

This time, I was lucid enough to ask questions. Every one dismissed. Every concern denied.

Let me be clear: I’m not disputing the migraines. I know them well. I’ve lost days to them. Watched my life shrink around their schedules.

But I am saying they’re being caused by the Chiari—and that the rest of my symptoms paint a pretty damning picture too.

When she referred to my now,13mm brain herniation as “inferior,” I nearly laughed.

My skull would beg to differ.

I’d had enough. I told them I wanted to be discharged. I’d go home and do what I’ve done for 15 years: survive on my own.

The Plot Twist

I was heartbroken. I missed Sam. I missed the dogs. When the nerobot basically said, in so many words, “Go on, then”—I was ready to vanish.

A few hours later, I was packed. Lift arranged. Wheelchair on the way. Still couldn’t sit upright without pressure building in my skull, but I was determined.

Then my nurse—who had looked after me for five of the eight days—came in with IVs in hand and confusion in his voice:

“You’re not being discharged.”

Excuse me—WHAT’S THAT NOW?!I absolutely am.

I explained everything—the neuro debacle, the dismissal, the disrespect.

Then came the mini meltdown.

He handled it with care, compassion, and the kind of grace you should expect in a hospital. He offered tissues. He listened.

Then he went to get backup.

Another doctor came in. Through tears (and the occasional snot bubble), she advised me—strongly—not to discharge myself.

“Why?” I asked.

She danced around it. I wouldn’t let it go.

Until finally, she said it:

“They’ve found something else on your scans.”