I hate doctors; I really do. This is not a statement I make lightly, but one based on a lifetime of personal experiences which have led me to this mindset. Oh, I can watch “ER” loyally and cheer on those valiant men and women in white, but deep down in my angry little soul, I know them to be total products of an inventive writer’s creative mind. I just do not believe that doctors like this exist anymore, if indeed, they ever have in my lifetime.
I can’t recall when I was completely comfortable with physicians. Oh, perhaps the doctor I saw as a small child was reasonably competent, if I can make a few allowances for that perception. I was, first of all, a healthy kid who rarely ever saw the doctor and when I did, he was the father of a school acquaintance of mine. That made him less of an authority figure and more of a “dad” type who was non-threatening. I knew he was a real, breathing human, partially because he didn’t project the air of Godhood that a lot of doctors put out like pheromones, but also because I was aware he had foibles, including his addiction to Pepsi Cola. His daughter told me that he consumed by himself at least a case of the stuff weekly, so clearly this was a real live human being. Sadly, we had moved away not long before he retired from practice, so I didn’t continue this relatively benign doctor-patient relationship in the years to come.
As a young adult, I saw doctors only when absolutely necessary, such as shortly before I was to get married. This was for the obligatory exam prior to obtaining birth control pills, an experience which is best left undescribed except to say that his sadistic streak seemed to rival the San Andreas in size and his compassion and patience would have fit into a pea-sized container with room to spare.
The resulting prescription and how I was to be treated for its negative side effects only added to my growing negativity towards doctors. At this time, the dosage for the Pill was quite a bit higher than it is today. This may be why I had very uncomfortable and unhappy reactions to every variety I tried to take. The effects mimicked pregnancy itself, but were more severe and did not result in a darling little bundle of joy in my arms. Complaints about these miserable effects ranged from mild irritation on the doctor’s part to a very dubious expression and a shrug. After two years of this situation, my by-then husband and I moved to alternative means of birth control, no thanks to the idiot doctor and his why-are-you-bothering-me attitude.
In the years of our marriage, we have changed family doctors like other people trade cars. They have ranged from the “All my patients wean their babies by six months” moron to the total incompetent who did not treat an ear infection I had until all manner of disgusting fluids were running out of that ear and I finally had to seek emergency room care when I just could not stand the pain any longer. Even worse than these wonderful gentlemen, however, was the doctor who made light of and almost outright ignored my husband’s health problems of diabetes and high cholesterol, until they helped bring on a heart attack. To add insult, this compassionate example of the medical arts could not even be bothered to visit his own patient when that patient was hospitalized. All of these examples might seem extreme, but I have spoken to enough people to know that they are probably mild examples of medical incompetence and more likely the rule, rather than the exception today.
Most recently when I developed a hacking cough, I tried to obtain an appointment with our current HMO doctor. My feelings about this man were fairly lukewarm, so I was not surprised when his office could not find a way to work me in. I had a bad bout of bronchitis last year and feared a recurrence. This held no significance to our lovely physician, whose receptionist recommended we utilize the urgent care center in his building. I knew better than to take this suggestion; truly I did. I have had experiences with this place in the past and they have never been pretty. Still, my two months of feeling like pond scum last season argued with my good sense/better instincts, and I reluctantly acquiesced to the trip.
I can think of many better ways to spend 90 minutes of my life. Having root canal surgery without anesthetic comes to mind as preferable, or maybe taking a midnight swim in the north Atlantic mid-Winter would be a fun alternative. It wasn’t bad enough that I was exposing everybody in the waiting room with whatever I had, but I was simultaneously being exposed to God only knows what viruses and bacteria being spewed from the mouths and other orifices of every other poor unfortunate soul in the room with me.
When I was to the point of offering up my firstborn if I could only get into the inner sanctum and actually SEE a doctor, my name was finally called. (Though, having sat and stared at the comings and goings of medical folk for the entire time, I could have let myself in as I had memorized the door code!) For once I did not even comment on the mispronunciation of my name, so ecstatic was I at finally getting inside.
After another 15 or 20 minutes waiting in the examining room for the grand entrance of the doctor, at long last the great one breezed in. From the first moment, it was clear that he was more-than-a-little annoyed at my presence in HIS examination room, if not for my existence on the planet itself. Although I tried to explain my symptoms to this man and why I had felt it was important to be checked, he cut me off with his hurried command to “take deep breaths”. I managed to mention that my prior bout with bronchitis the previous winter had made me fear its recurrence, but he said that bronchitis was “just a chest cold” in a tone which suggested even this much conversation with a mere mortal was a huge waste of his precious time. He then informed me that I only had a virus, but “maybe it will turn into pneumonia, who knows?”
I looked at him, astonished at his curtness and I believe I retorted, “Well gee, thanks a heap”.
“I CAN prescribe a codeine cough syrup to control the cough if you want, but you will just have to ride it out anyway.”
What I wanted was to suggest in rather crude terms what he could do with his cough syrup, his attitude, and suggest what he might kiss to really make me feel better. I did not want antibiotics if they were not warranted, but I did want a doctor who would treat me like a person with feelings and not a slab of meat with legs. But feeling pretty crummy, I bit off my impulse and instead tried to explain again why I had come to see him at all. It occurred to me even at that moment that my feeling I needed to JUSTIFY myself was beyond lousy and unjust. As I walked out of the building, I was unsure if I was angrier at the inconsiderate doctor or at myself for coming there in the first place. I did tell my husband that the next time I went in to the doctor, I would have to be either unconscious or he would be wheeling me in on a gurney because otherwise I would not darken that door in this lifetime.
Maybe there are still medical people in this country who genuinely care about patients for something other than their checkbook or their insurance payments. Maybe some of them took the Hippocratic Oath seriously, and do not behave as though it was the hypocritic one, instead, but I have not met them. At this late date, I simply do not believe they exist outside of romance novels or network television. As comforting as fiction can be, it does not, in this instance at least, reflect real life as it is. So yes, I DO hate doctors. I am saddened that this is the case, but I don’t see how I could feel otherwise, given my own past and present.