Mistaken Identity

We’ve all heard stories about mistaken identity in the medical world. A patient gets the wrong procedure, or the wrong medication, or the wrong study…I can’t say I’ve ever been involved in anything even remotely serious – at least, not that I’m aware of – but I’ve had a few stumbles. I’ve had to ask patients which side we’re operating on, or make sure we’re doing the right surgery – it’s all part of the checks built into the system.

Just this morning I was trying to find a patient before the OR. The nurse handed me the chart and pointed to an elderly woman in a stretcher. There’s your pre-op, she said kindly. I opened the chart and started reading as I walked. Suddenly the chart was taken out of my hands and a new one put in its placed. Sorry, the nurse said, this is the correct chart. She gave a sheepish smile. No worries.

Yesterday afternoon I got an email that made me stop dead in my tracks and break out in a cold sweat. The title of the email was simply my last time, and the body of the email was a forward with several correspondences. I didn’t recognize the return address, but it seemed like he wanted me to review a conversation. He was a lawyer, a “family defense” lawyer. It seemed that his client – who shared my last name – was being sued for divorce by his wife. The emails were a series of conversations between lawyers who were trying to clarify the ugly details. Somehow it got forwarded to me by mistake.

I read it again. And again. And again. And every time my heart raced faster and my face got more flushed. This isn’t supposed to be me, right? Are lawyers trying to find me? Is my wife suing me? My heart was drowning myself out. No, it was clearly an accident – right? – check the names again. It’s just a mistake, but one that stung more than most accidents are capable of. It hurts to even think of it. It wasn’t me. Relax! It wasn’t me! But so close. Too close.

It’s a funny thing, to have your identify mistaken. And it’s odd to realize the different levels that it can be hurtful. There’s the simple insult of being confused with someone else. But there is also hurt in confronting the confused situation. Is it better or worse than my life? Is it too close to home? Is it possibly knife-piercing foreshadowing?

I hate being confused. I hate confusing others. Know me for who I am. And let me know you for who you are. Then, finally, there will be peace.