A doctor, a new mother and the morning everything changed
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It has been five and a half years, but I can close my eyes and remember this moment as if it were yesterday.
The doorbell rings. I am half awake. The baby has been up all night. I look through the peephole. I don’t know the person standing there.
Before walking away, I hear him say, “Dr. Kosteli.” How does he know my name?
I open the door hesitantly.
“You are being served. You need to sign under this line.”
I feel my heart beating loudly and fast. What is he talking about? Before I can ask him, I have signed and he is gone.
I look at the paper in front of me. It is a malpractice claim.
My heart sinks.
The baby starts crying, and I feel a lump in my throat. What am I supposed to do? I feel lost. I feel like a scared kid, not an adult doctor. My mind is galloping.
Am I a bad doctor?
The baby keeps crying. I feel the tension filling my body.
Am I a bad mother?
Trying to silence my thoughts, I sing a lullaby to the baby. With my free hand, I grab my phone and check my email. My malpractice insurance has already reached out to me, and so has the insurance lawyer.
“When can we meet?”
I look at my small baby, who is calmer now. My maternity leave would not end for two more weeks.
Little did he know that his mama was already gone.
PS: Years later, I won the case. But no verdict could give me back the time I lost- or the doctor and mother I had been, before that morning.
The Verdict
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Closing arguments are over. The insurance adjuster is on the phone with my lawyer.
“Keep me posted if it’s time to open our wallet.”
Negotiations continue until the very end.
Apparently, the longer the jury takes to deliberate, the worse it is. They are likely trying to determine the amount.
It is Friday afternoon. We could be done today, or it could continue on Monday, my lawyer says. What a weekend that would be.
“Maybe go get something to eat,” he suggests.
I ask if he wants anything.
An exhausting week is almost over.
Except it isn’t.
I feel my heart beating fast as the verdict approaches. I feel as if my whole life is at stake, even if that is irrational.
A few minutes later, I am back, snacks in hand. I open the door.
The jury is back.
All standing.
Why?
It has only been twenty minutes since they left to deliberate.
What is going on?
My lawyer looks at me and says, “You won.”
I can’t believe it.
“Can I thank them?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
I start crying.
I look at them and whisper thank you as they leave. Some of them smile. I wish they knew that for the last week, my whole existence had been in their hands.
The judge congratulates me.
My lawyer finally smiles.
“This was the fastest verdict I’ve ever seen,” he says.
And the last five years of my life seem to evaporate
Fashion week as a defendant
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I look again and again. I thought I owned an interview suit. Didn’t I wear one for my deposition? I thought I saved it or maybe not. Salvation Army? Panic sinks in. I have nothing to wear. I feel like a teenager looking for a dress for the prom. Instead I am looking for a suit for court. I google: what to wear in court? So much advice. “Don’t wear black, it is the color of guilt”. “Wear a different suit every day, keep things interesting for the jury” Really? So I need 5 suits? What about shoes?
I need to go shopping. Court is next week and I feel I should be preparing. I feel like a medical student again. I need to read all my notes. Think of possible questions.
I am working tomorrow. I don’t have time for shopping.
“But remember you have to look professional.”Professional enough not to have failed the standard of care.
I pick Macy’s. I think a safe choice. Never noticed that the most popular color for suits is black. The color of guilt. Is royal blue acceptable or too garish? I reject it. I am trying one suit after the other. Some greys, some navy. I need to find something comfortable I think. It may be a long day. How long is each day in court? I have no idea. I feel so lost. I don’t know anyone who has been to court for a malpractice case before. I am sweating and I feel alone. I don’t want to be here. I end up buying 5 suits that I will most likely never wear again. The cashier looks up while she is putting my stuff in a bag. These look so cute she says and smiles even though I look as if I am buying clothes for my own funeral.
I make it home. I put my shopping away. I open my black binder with all my notes. I feel calmer. Now I can prepare. This is what I am good at, right? Preparing. Not for an exam this time but to convince some people who I never met that I am a competent doctor.
Am I a competent doctor a voice whispers in my head? Before I have time to shut this thought down my phone rings. It is the lawyer. “Sorry I have some bad news. The case will have to be postponed. A criminal case turned up and it takes priority. I will keep you posted”.
I look up. My new suits are neatly hanging in the open closet. I sigh and close the door.
Invisible
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Reading the patient family’s deposition.
“What did Dr. Kosteli say?”
“Well, I never met him.”
“It is her.”
“Well, I never met a lady doctor. Only a man.”
“You’re aware you are suing Dr. Kosteli today?”
Silence.
It could be a joke, but it isn’t. Keep in mind I was the only defendant.
It happens to all of us.
“The family is asking when they’re going to see a doctor.”
“I was just there.”
You learn to ignore it.
Once, a family questioned me because the male doctor had said something different.
“The male doctor is a medical student. I direct your care.”
You tell yourself people mean well. There are a lot of faces, a lot of roles.
It can be confusing.
But is it?
About 40% of physicians in the U.S. are women. Today, most medical students are women.
So when will patients expect their doctor might be a woman?
When will we stop feeling invisible—
even when we are the ones accused of wrongdoing?
The lawyer
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I see your name on my phone screen. You are calling.
My heart sinks.
How many billable hours for you, how many hours away from my kid for me.
I know I should want to talk to you. I know it is to my advantage. My frontal cortex repeats this like a mantra.
But my rebellious self doesn’t want to.
I don’t want to teach you medicine, and I know you don’t want to teach me law.
We are in a tug of war. We are stuck.
You tell me it’s too much work to go to court.
I tell you I don’t want my name on the National Provider Data Bank.
We agree to disagree. We agree to annoy each other.
Sometimes I get angry. I reduce you to the malpractice insurance lawyer, even though you are here to defend me.
I am sure I annoy you too—my questions, my suggestions, my need to understand everything.
Maybe I should just let you do your job.
We meet in court.
We have been talking for hours, but we have never met in person.
You look tired. You tell me you haven’t slept for days.
My dark under-eye circles match yours.
Something shifts.
I feel it before I understand it.
We are both here. We are both tired.
We are here to win.
