AUTIE AND DOCTOR GOOD
(Author has Sensory Processing Disorder)
Autieâs determination grew with
each step she took away
from that cold, unfeeling
place. This was not the
end of her journey.
Days later, Autie found
herself in the waiting
room of Dr. Goodie, a
recommendation from a friend
who understood her plight.
The walls here were painted
a warm, soothing color, and
the air smelled faintly of
lavender. The music was
soft, a melody that seemed
tailored to her soul. The
furniture was plush, and
the lighting gentle, not
the harsh fluorescent glare
she'd come to expect.
When Dr. Goodie entered,
her eyes met Autie's, a
smile in them that seemed
genuine. She didn't immediately
dive into her charts, but
sat down, her posture open
and attentive. "Tell me,
Autie, what brings you in
today?" Her voice was
calm, a stark contrast to
the storm Autie had
weathered before.
Autie took a deep breath,
her words tumbling out like
a waterfall, explaining
her symptoms, her fears,
and the pain of being
doubted. Dr. Goodie
nodded, her gaze never
leaving Autie's, her expression
one of understanding. She
asked questions, real questions,
that didn't make Autie feel
like she was being interrogated.
Her touch was gentle, her
explanations thorough. She
acknowledged Autie's reality,
validating her experiences
without dismissal.
The exam room was
a sanctuary, designed with
sensory needs in mind. The
lights were dimmer, the sounds
softer, and the air held
a faint scent of calming
essential oils. Dr. Goodie
offered Autie noise-canceling
headphones, and a soft,
weighted blanket to hold
during the exam. She moved
slowly, giving Autie time
to adjust to each new sensation.
Her voice remained calm
and soothing, a lifeline in
the tumultuous sea of Autie's
overwhelmed nervous system.
"We'll go at your pace,"
Dr. Goodie assured her. "I
have different tools and
techniques that I can use
to make this easier for you."
Autie felt a spark of hope,
a tiny flame flickering
in the darkness. For the
first time in a long time,
someone was offering her
choices, treating her not
as a problem to be solved,
but as a person to be heard.
Before each test, Dr. Goodie
explained what she was
about to do, asking for
Autie's consent. "Is this
okay with you?" she would
say, holding up a thermometer
or a blood pressure cuff.
It was a simple question,
but it meant the world to
Autie. Her nods were met
with a warm smile and a gentle
touch that didn't make
her recoil. The doctor's
fingers were light as they
performed each procedure,
and she talked Autie through
each step, her voice a steady
beacon in the chaos of
Autie's senses.
For the first time in
this medical odyssey,
Autie felt seen and heard.
Dr. Goodie didn't dismiss
her pain, didn't treat her
like a puzzle to solve
or a problem to fix. Instead,
she offered empathy, a
rare gift in a world that
so often misunderstood her.
With each question, each
caring gesture, Autie felt
a piece of herself being
put back together, like a
shattered vase being carefully
glued.
"Would you like the lights
a bit dimmer?" Dr. Goodie
asked, and Autie nodded
gratefully. The doctor
obliged, and the room
transformed into a soothing
cave of calm. The doctor
then presented her with a
tray of different textured
materials to choose from.
"Which one feels most
comfortable for you?" Autie
selected a soft, velvety
material, and Dr. Goodie
placed it over the chair's
harsh fabric, giving her
a small oasis of comfort.
Next, she offered a
variety of fidget toys,
each designed to cater
to a different need. "Which
of these helps you focus?"
Autie's eyes lit up as she
chose a smooth stone, the
weight of it grounding her
in a way she hadn't felt
since she first walked
into the cold, uncaring
environment of Dr. Baddy's
office. She clutched it tightly
as Dr. Goodie continued
her exam, her thumb
absently tracing patterns
that soothed her racing
mind.
The doctor spoke softly,
explaining that she
understood how overwhelming
the world could be for someone
with heightened senses. "We're
going to work together,"
she assured Autie, "to find
what works best for you."
It was a revelation,
like stepping out of a
nightmare and into a
dream. Here was someone
who didn't just tolerate
her differences but
celebrated them, who
saw her as more than just
a collection of symptoms.
Dr. Goodie took out
a small pad of paper
and a pen, asking Autie
to write down any
particular textures or
sensations that were
particularly uncomfortable
for her. Autie's hand
shook slightly as she
began to scribble, the
relief making her almost
lightheaded. She listed
the cold metallic feeling
of instruments, the rough
cotton of the typical
examination table, the
sharpness of needles, and
the unyielding grip of
Dr. Baddy's restraints.
The doctor nodded thoughtfully
as she read, her eyes
never leaving Autie's.
"I see," she said, her voice
calm and measured. "We'll
make sure to avoid those
triggers as much as
possible. I have a few
alternatives we can try."
Her voice was like a balm,
soothing Autie's frazzled
nerves. "For instance,
we can use a different
material for the blood
pressure cuff, and I can
make sure to warm up any
instruments before I use
them on you." She paused,
waiting for Autie to
indicate her agreement.
When she nodded, Dr. Goodie
smiled gently. "Good. And I have
some numbing cream that
can help."
The exam continued, but
this time it was a dance
of understanding. Each
move was made with care,
each touch a promise that
Autie's needs were not
just acknowledged, but
respected. Dr. Goodie
was patient, explaining
each step before taking it,
and Autie felt a burden
lifting. She was not a
problem to be solved, but
a person to be cared for.
The doctor's gentle touch
was a stark contrast to
the invasive poking of
before, and Autie found
herself relaxing under
the weighted blanket, the
soft light, and the steady
rhythm of her voice.