Why Aggressive Doctors Saved My Life: A Sarcoidosis Patient’s Honest Take on US vs UK Care

I got an email the other day from a very upset reader in Europe who had just discovered the “My Story” page on my blog. According to them, American doctors are apparently out here living like medical Kardashians—slicing, dicing, medicating, and sending patients into bankruptcy so they can buy imported marble bathtubs. And I, poor little me, was supposedly a victim of their capitalist villainy. A tragic pawn in the great American “propaganda machine.” I swear, I could almost hear dramatic violin music playing behind their words.

Then another reader from the UK wrote to tell me that his wife—who has been living with sarcoidosis since 2008—was never treated at all. Her doctors chose the “wait and see” approach, which, from what I gather, usually means “Wait… and hope the disease is polite enough not to spread.” Spoiler: it wasn’t. She now has sarcoidosis in her skin, eyes, nose, chest, liver, and salivary glands. That’s basically the world tour no one asked for. And here’s the heartbreaking thing—had she been treated at diagnosis, she’d likely be dealing only with old scarring instead of an expanding list of complications. The cost of waiting wasn’t side effects. It was progression.

Look, I completely understand the logic behind conservative treatment. These meds aren’t Skittles; the side effects are real. But sometimes the disease is uglier than the drugs. Her story shook me, because it was entirely preventable.

Meanwhile, I’m over here thanking every star in the night sky for my aggressively nosy American doctors. These people do not “wait and see.” They “test, scan, probe, poke, and don’t ask permission until after.” And honestly? Good. I’m here because of that.

I’m also extra grateful for my health insurance—the one that costs more than a small country’s annual GDP and grows every year like it’s trying to win an award. But you know what it also does? It pays. Every surgery, every scan, every hospitalization, every medication. If I had to rely on someone else deciding whether I deserve treatment… let’s just say my blog would have ended abruptly in 2007.

Back then I had a mini-stroke. My doctor could’ve shrugged and said, “Probably slept funny on your arm.” Instead, he ordered every test under the sun—MRI, CT, bloodwork, X-rays. That’s how we discovered the congenital hole in my heart (PFO). A tiny anatomical glitch letting clots sneak into my brain like they were cutting the line at a concert. That discovery led to the surgery to fix it.

And here’s where the story gets wild. The surgeon decided, on the spot, to put me under general anesthesia so he could test my heart more thoroughly. He didn’t have to—my echo from a month earlier looked great. But he trusted his instincts more than the paperwork. When I woke up, he told me the hole was fixed… and that I was now in heart failure. In thirty days, the sarcoidosis had gone straight for my heart like it was choosing seats at a buffet.

Had he not checked, I would’ve had maybe two months left. Two. Months.

Later, more tests—because my doctors don’t believe in chilling—revealed secondary pulmonary hypertension and a plug that didn’t completely seal the heart hole. Now I take Plavix to keep things from getting adventurous in my bloodstream.

All of that—every discovery, every intervention—happened because someone refused to “wait and see.” They saw, they acted, and they saved my life. I am genuinely one of the lucky ones. Blessed, even. Not because the system is perfect (it isn’t), but because my particular chain of events involved the right doctors, the right testing, and insurance that didn’t run screaming into the night.

Do some specialists live large? Sure. They can fly their fancy cars to their fancy houses if it keeps them motivated to keep me alive. Just don’t wait until I’m dead to say, “Hmm… maybe we should’ve prescribed that pill.”

So yes, the American system has flaws—big ones—but it also gave me life. And in a world where sarcoidosis isn’t known for being gentle or predictable, I’ll take the overly aggressive doctor with the expensive pen over the politely cautious one with a clipboard full of “let’s check again in six months.”

If you’ve had your own medical plot twist—or just have thoughts on aggressive vs cautious care—drop a comment below. And if you’re new here, hit subscribe so you don’t miss future chef-with-sarcoidosis rants, rambles, and survival stories.