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My Doctors Misdiagnosed Me, And It Cost Me Everything. It Took Years To Get My Life Back.

My Doctors Misdiagnosed Me, And It Cost Me Everything. It Took Years To Get My Life Back.
Throughout my years as a physician, diagnosing patients has defined my life. I have taken pride in exploring symptoms methodically and listening intently to the stories my patients shared. For me, it was standard practice — my job, my passion, my life. I saw myself as a medical detective gathering evidence that, when properly compiled, could lead me to the correct diagnosis. I love my work, and I never imagined I’d become the guy trapped in a medical nightmare due to a series of misdiagnoses.My problems began innocently enough. For years, I’d felt increasingly sleepy and foggy-headed during the day, with a deep fatigue caffeine couldn’t alleviate. Whenever possible, I seized my lunch hour as an opportunity better spent napping than eating. Most days, I would make a quick trip to my car for a half-hour nap then trudge back to work, eagerly anticipating a real nap when I finished my day.Doctors have a medical term for the symptoms I was experiencing: excessive daytime somnolence. The severity of EDS varies along a spectrum ranging from mild to severe. I was quickly approaching the severe stage.I found myself nodding off mid-conversation with my patients, experiencing what is called microsleep. Nearly everyone has experienced an involuntary head nod while seated in a warm room watching a boring movie, but this was happening to me in the middle of a conversation with a patient. I have never been fond of coffee, but I needed a caffeine fix to get through the day. I was consuming up to 1,000 milligrams of caffeine pills each day — equivalent to 10 cups of coffee. It barely moved the needle.A friend who is board-certified in sleep medicine offered me an overnight study at his lab. The results confirmed severe obstructive sleep apnea (OSA), a condition where breathing repeatedly stops and starts during sleep. My next step was to seek treatment using a CPAP machine, which helps keep airways open.However, my insurance required a follow-up with another specialist at a different hospital. Armed with my diagnosis and sleep study results, I visited the new doctor, who promptly dismissed the data, misdiagnosing me with periodic limb movement disorder, a rare condition that involves involuntary limb movements during sleep.For that misdiagnosis, I was prescribed Mirapex, a powerful psychoactive drug known to produce severe psychological side effects in a small percentage of patients. Unfortunately, I was among those unlucky few.When my symptoms worsened, my dosage was doubled, and another potent stimulant, Provigil, was added. When that still didn’t help, the dosage of Provigil was doubled, too.  Instead of improving, I was now barely able to stay awake. I emailed my sleep specialist describing myself as a “walking zombie” — because I was. I was descending a spiral staircase into a worldview characterised by extreme paranoia and irrational behaviour. In the midst of one episode of particularly bizarre and paranoid actions, I was involuntarily hospitalised in a locked psychiatric ward.  A well-meaning friend — inexplicably posing as my cousin — submitted a document informing the doctors that I was bipolar. He apparently wished to make the doctors take my psychotic behaviour very seriously. Without further investigation, the doctors accepted this information at face value. Just like that, I had a new incurable mental illness. The diagnosis would prove nearly impossible to shake.  The author undergoing a sleep study at the Stanford Sleep Medicine Sleep Laboratory in 2010. "I finally received appropriate treatment three years after I was misdiagnosed as bipolar," he writes.My doctors’ next move was to prescribe three powerful antipsychotic medications in addition to the medications I was already on. These weren’t just the wrong medications — they were gasoline on a blaze. This was polypharmacy at its worst, leading to a predictable worsening of my symptoms due to what is known as “stacking” medications.After a 72-hour hold, I was released. Yet, due to my combination of untreated EDS and a cocktail of five psychoactive medications, my condition spiralled further into severe psychosis characterised by paranoid mania. Convinced I was under surveillance and targeted by malevolent forces, I began tearing open the walls of my home in search of spyware. Soon, I was fired from my job because of my erratic behaviour, I destroyed my home, and started sleeping in my truck, convinced that everyone around me was a spy.Even through the haze of paranoia, a small, rational voice in my head kept whispering that something was seriously wrong — that it was impossible for me to be bipolar. Yet, doctors assured me the diagnosis was correct, telling me I was in denial about my mental illness, so I trusted them. Not one doctor considered that the powerful drugs they prescribed might themselves cause or worsen psychosis. After all, only a “small percentage” of patients experience the onset of psychosis, as stated on the manufacturer’s warning label. Substance-induced psychosis is a well-documented phenomenon, yet, in my case, not one doctor even raised the possibility.Eventually, my nightmare took a darker turn. I was involuntarily hospitalised on eight different occasions and shuffled between locked psych wards, where doctors confidently administered more drugs (18 in all) that plunged me deeper into delusion as they rubber-stamped my incurable bipolar diagnosis. My opinions — once authoritative and respected — were now completely disregarded. My identity as a physician collapsed under the weight of being labeled mentally ill.As a doctor myself, I somewhat understood what was happening. I could see that the standard diagnostic procedures were not followed. Yet, emotionally and mentally, I felt trapped — helpless and increasingly hopeless. My life, career and relationships lay in ruins around me.Looking back, the cause of this catastrophe seems glaringly obvious: not a single doctor undertook the fundamental medical work of performing a thorough differential diagnosis — the systematic method used to identify a disease or condition by carefully ruling out other possible conditions. None of perhaps 12 different psychiatrists paused to consider if my medications might explain my symptoms, even after I suggested it to them. Instead, they brushed aside my explanation, labelling it as rationalisation of psychotic symptoms. Another simpler diagnosis — severe OSA causing chronic, severe sleep deprivation — was hiding in plain sight. Hundreds of times each night, OSA briefly deprives the brain of oxygen. Over time, the cumulative damage from OSA, depending on its duration and severity, may lead to clinical depression, cognitive impairment, mood instability or worse. It is a serious condition, but it is entirely treatable and manageable.For years, my OSA went undiagnosed and then undertreated, causing lasting damage to my life.Inexplicably, during my last hospitalisation, my psychiatrist forgot to continue prescribing Mirapex and Provigil, the powerful medications that had initially set me ablaze. Ironically, this oversight was exactly what allowed me to start emerging from the haze. Without those drugs clouding my mind, I gradually regained enough clarity to recognise what was happening to me.My recovery was slow and uneven. There was no overnight miracle, only a gradual return to clarity and stability — and even that felt uncertain at times. The damage done was enormous. My life, career, reputation — everything was destroyed because no doctor took the basic step of challenging their initial assumptions. In medical school we were told: A doctor who falls in love with his diagnosis is just asking for trouble.Within a year of my final hospitalisation, I returned to clinical work in physical medicine and rehabilitation, albeit in a non-academic position. I’ve continued practicing since then, though not at the level I had previously anticipated. With considerable help from my family, I also rebuilt my house. Personal connections took longer to repair. My relationships with family and friends, even now, are a work in progress. I wasn’t the only one severely traumatised by the years of my uncontrolled paranoid mania. It leaves scars, not bruises.  The author at a celebration in April 2024. "Even many years after my medication-induced psychosis, my relationships are a work in progress,” he writes.Ultimately, I filed a malpractice suit against the hospital and the doctors who had failed me, achieving a significant victory that acknowledged the devastating harm caused by the misdiagnosis. However, this story isn’t solely about legal vindication. It’s about what patients need — and deserve — from their doctors.Every patient is potentially vulnerable to medical errors, particularly psychiatric misdiagnosis. The symptoms of psychiatric patients are often dismissed as manifestations of their mental illness instead of clues to something more profound, and their mental incapacitation makes it challenging for them to advocate for themselves. This was precisely my experience during those troubling times.Doctors are fallible. Our medical system, which is under immense pressures of time, money, insurance constraints, and bureaucratic rules, is highly susceptible to shortcuts. Prescribing a strong medication is often quicker, easier and cheaper than exploring symptoms, histories and diagnostic complexities.It would be reassuring to think my story is an aberration. It can’t be. I saw perhaps a dozen psychiatrists and experienced eight involuntary holds at five different hospitals. That suggests this is a pattern, not an anomaly. Every day, patients like me are misdiagnosed, mislabeled and prescribed medications in haste. Exhausted and overwhelmed clinicians rely too heavily on shortcuts, neglecting the foundational practice of differential diagnosis. Consequently, lives are disrupted, damaged or destroyed by a medical culture that has largely forgotten how to listen and reconsider its assumptions.It took a physician becoming a patient to see clearly how flawed our medical approach can be. I share this story not as a cautionary tale about one doctor’s misfortune but as an urgent call to action for medical professionals, patients and families. We must change how we diagnose, how we medicate, and, above all, how we listen. We can do better, and we must. Shouldn’t we doctors all aspire to be medical detectives?If my journey has taught me anything, it’s this: A diagnosis is never merely a label. It can shape your life. A misdiagnosis can ruin it. However, a correct diagnosis — an accurate, thoughtful and compassionate assessment — can restore it.We owe it to ourselves and to each other never to forget that.Trust me — I’m a doctor.Dr. Scott Standage, M.D., is a specialist in physical medicine and rehabilitation based in San Jose, California. He is currently working on a memoir that will illuminate the dangers of diagnostic shortcuts, medication misuse and institutional neglect in American health care.Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at [email protected] Strange Condition Ruined My Sex Life For 40 Years. 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