Doctor, Heal Thy Arrogance

I have a great deal of respect for doctors. I don't respect them because they're better than me; they are people too, subject to the same human foibles as all of us struggling to live the life that is our blessing (or curse). They have been to school to learn how to try and heal what ails us, or at least, make our illnesses easier to deal with. We pay them (handsomely) to benefit from their knowledge. We, as patients, are ignorant when it comes to the complexities of what it is that makes a body stay alive, or how to fix it when it's broken. We are not, however, stupid, and do not deserve to be treated as such. Nothing makes me angrier than paying a person to disrespect me. I have a couple of anecdotes to share that illustrate my point.

A few years ago, I was living in Holland, Michigan, which is, by any stretch, a very conservative area. The nicotine patch was a brand new treatment to help smokers stop smoking, and it was available only by prescription. Now, despite my extended nicotine addiction, I have had no health issues; I didn't even have a regular doctor, because I never needed one, and I still don't. I had insurance, so money wasn't an issue. (The story gets a little weird here, but I swear it's true) One day while bent over drying my ankles after a shower, I was attacked by what I call a "ninja" sneeze. I never felt it coming, and it nearly crippled me. Somehow, I pulled a muscle in my neck, and I was unable to move my head to the left at all. I couldn't even drive safely. I tried to tough it out for a couple days, thinking it would go away, but it didn't. A friend suggested a physical therapist, so I went to one. He said he thought he could help me, but that I needed to see a physician first (he recommended one), which brings me back to the doctor. I thought as long as I was there for my neck, I would ask about the patch.

The doctor's waiting room had no literature save for bibles and other religious tracts. The walls had needlepoint bible quotes. As I sat in the waiting waiting room, I hoped that this guy would use traditional medicine instead of asking Jesus to take time out from his busy day to fix my neck and help me stop smoking. As I mentioned, Holland was a very conservative place; it was against the law to mow your lawn on Sunday. When I got in to see the doctor, I could tell right away that it was going to be a bad visit. I am not festooned with tattoos like a circus freak, but I have a few, and all of them are devils. At the time, I also had a ponytail over three feet long. The doctor looked at me as if I were Satan himself. He put on rubber gloves to feel my neck, presumably to keep any evil from seeping out of me and into his pores, corrupting his soul. As he spoke, he was curt, and, in my opinion, his tone positively dripped with disgust, as if talking to me was a loathsome chore, a test, even. I had experienced that sort of thing before with many people, particularly overtly religious ones. They were very quick to judge on appearance alone.

So I asked him about the patch, and I could have sworn he was miffed that I dared ask a health question unrelated to my current visit, like I was getting a "two for one" deal. He snapped at me, and said, "Quitting smoking is a very important decision. I need to know that you're serious about it, so why don't you come back in two weeks, and if you still want to quit, we'll talk about it". I said, "I am serious. That's why I asked you". He said, "Two weeks", as if daring me to make another appointment. Apparently, this guy thought that the Hippocratic Oath only applied if the patient fit his ideal of what a person should be. We both snorted at each other, and I left, never to return.

My next example of medical snootiness happened just the other day. To be fair, this guy was a vet, and my cat was the patient, but as you will read, it is another example of a doctor who is too big for his britches.

My cat developed a growth on the side of his head. I had no idea what it was; for all I knew it was cat head cancer. I took him to see a vet, convinced that this was going to be, at best, a "bad news" visit, and at worst, a one way trip for the cat. The vet (female) took one look at the cat and said it was a follicular cyst, very common and of no danger to the cat's health. In short, it was an ingrown hair. Since I am a poor struggling writer, I didn't have the money to have it removed, but said I would come back when I got it. I finally went back this week, and asked if the doctor remembered me from the visit a month prior. The receptionist said they had changed doctors, but that the new one would look at it and tell me how much it cost. The price was right, and I gave the OK. It only took about ten minutes, and I didn't hear any yowling, so I assume the cat was fairly comfortable during the removal. But just like the people doctor in Holland, we had an issue unrelated to the original visit.

The vet told me that my cat was way too skinny. "A bag of bones" was his phrase. I started to tell him that I have had the cat for 13 years, and he's ALWAYS looked like he does now (he was fully grown when I got him, so I have no idea how old he really is). The vet interrupted me with a tone that thinly disguised his belief that I was somehow derelict in my pet owning responsibilities. A gaggle of nurses (?) nodded in agreement, and chimed in that there was something very wrong with my cat. Again, I tried to explain that he has always looked the way he does now, and, interrupted again, I got the "He's been sick for years", with the distinct implication that I knowingly allowed the cat to suffer all this time. He quickly added that for another $150, he could do some blood work and see what kind of medicinal regimen the cat should be on, which, of course, would mean a monthly prescription (read: expense) for the rest of the cat's life. I put my cat in his carry case and left, promising to return, but I won't.

Don't get me wrong; I love my cat. But he is the same cat today that he was when my ex wife dragged him home one day so long ago, and he has never acted like a sick cat. Ever. He's lived a long time, and he won't live forever, no matter how much medicine (or money) I give. I don't think he's broken, so I'm not going to try and fix him.

The point of these two stories is this: We, as patients, are the customers. We are the kings. We are the ones shelling out the money, so why is it that we have to pay to be humiliated? I mean, c'mon! I can get that for free just about anywhere. It seems to me that listening when another person is speaking is the most basic consideration, so why do some doctors, in spite of their advanced degrees, not understand that? Why do they act like they're doing you a huge favor by speaking down to you with their hand in your pocket?

In all fairness, I do not think all doctors are buttheads. On the contrary, I have, due to a very painful motorcycle accident, dealt with a great many kind, considerate doctors, and would, as a whole, classify them as good. But those rude, snooty ones really get under my skin.