They Told Me I Was Dying: Why Doctors' Words Matter

A year and a half ago, I was lying on a California emergency room medical table when I first heard I was going to die.

While one doctor probed me with a needle to extract thick, yellow turbid fluid from my abdomen, a gynecologist hovered over me and delivered the news: I probably had 7 to 8 months to live.

“Oh my God. No,” I said.

I was a 51-year-old who had only been sick once in the last 10 years. If anything, I had skated by in life on my good health, and luck. The information didn’t match my self-identity. It all seemed so wrong.

“Patient is appropriately shocked and in disbelief,” read my medical notes from that day.

“Fuck this shit,” I told my husband hours later.

I wasn’t ready to die. Thankfully, I didn’t believe her.

I’ve often thought about that day and why I persisted in the face of such a dire diagnosis, given so casually. I thank my thick skin from being a political spouse; my husband, Rick Kriseman, is finishing his second term as the mayor of St. Petersburg, Florida. I thank my faith. And, I thank my privilege. It’s easier to fight when you have better-than-average health insurance. I never worried about paying for my care.

As a battle-worn first lady, I know words matter.

And, I know there are better words health care providers can use to speak to patients.