Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

Five years of being sent to every specialty known to man didn’t fix me.

Five years of grueling tests didn’t fix me.

The “Great Mayo Clinic” in Rochester didn’t fix me.

Five years of flaring up, crashing, clawing my way back—only to collapse again—didn’t fix me.

I did.

And no, I’m still not “fixed.” I’m still fighting every day for scraps of quality of life. But the truth is: I’ve had to fight harder against the system than I ever have against my illness.

I’ve had to monitor every vital, track every symptom, decode every test, comb through doctor notes riddled with inaccuracies and assumptions. I’ve had to correct charts, challenge bias, and redact unlicensed psychiatric theories disguised as medical opinion.

At Mayo Clinic, one doctor’s negligence—Dr. Nour—set my recovery back by over a year. I pointed out, politely, that she had missed key data spanning years. She hadn’t done her job. I suffered because of it. And for daring to speak that truth aloud, I was labeled a “problem patient.”

But it’s not just her.

Two weeks ago, in the ER at Southdale Fairview, I presented with symptoms of an adrenal crash and possible stress cardiomyopathy. Instead of giving me the steroids that could save my life, Dr. Khan withheld them. Suggested a psych evaluation. I was admitted to the hospital, where I continued to suffer until I was discharged with a “dysautonomia” diagnosis—but still no discussion of my 0.2 cortisol level. Still no steroids for my known adrenal insufficiency.

I want to say Dr. Khan was the problem. Or Dr. Nour. Or the Mayo system.

But the truth is, there are Dr. Nour’s and Dr. Khan’s everywhere.

And the systems built around them make it far too easy for this harm to continue. No accountability. No reflection. Just referral after referral, delay after delay, while patients like me—patients who are poor, chronically ill, trauma survivors—are left to suffer.

This is the same organization that protected one of their OBs after a new patient accused him of being inappropriate. There are articles about it. And yet, I’m supposed to trust that system with my life?

That’s why I followed Dr. Stecher—one of the few who actually listens—to a clinic 40 minutes away. Because I’ll drive anywhere for something more rare than a diagnosis: medical integrity. Human decency.

I’m not talking about politics. I’m talking about trauma-informed care. About doctors who see suffering and can’t stomach doing nothing about it. About people who still believe in the sacredness of the phrase:

First, do no harm.

Too many doctors forget the harm they do when they doubt us, delay us, dismiss us.

But I haven’t forgotten.

I carry the consequences in my bloodwork, my heart, my nervous system—and in the resilience I’ve had to build alone.

I’m still not fixed.

But I’m still here.