More hurt than ill
The last line of defence of any panicky patient is sickly humour which can fall flat if the doctor doesn’t have a funny bone. Sepulchral physicians who go around looking mournful ought to be banned from hospitals. If the prognosis is bad, you can excuse them for appearing morose, but what’s the reason when all you have is a mild fever, or an irritating cold? Whatever happened to bedside manners (not that doctors come around on house calls all that much these days)?
When I was forced, after a few days of being laid low with a viral, to go see a doctor, I did so gracelessly. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a model patient, demanding to write my will at the suggestion of a headache, insisting on company one moment and solitude the next. No wonder my wife chose to flee town, preferring to offer cantankerous solace over the phone, and dispensing the (wrong, as it turned out) medicines from the safety of distance. The children had offices where mysterious early appointments and late evening meetings kept them mostly out of my reach. In effect, I was grouchy and alone at home.
Bullied into seeing a doctor, I refused appointments with those we knew, preferring the neutrality of a non-judgmental physician who couldn’t call home to complain about my curmudgeonly ways. Describing my symptoms, I was asked by the good doctor assigned to me at a neighbourhood clinic whether I had been travelling in the recent past. “You have a viral infection,” he said, “that isn’t local, you must have picked it somewhere else.” Thoughts of the dreaded nipah filled my mind. “I haven’t set foot away from work, or home, in a while,” I assured him. “Have you been meeting people from outside?” he demanded to know. I thought of the previous weekend where summer vacationers returning from various parts of the country had been home for dinner, and of peers in the workplace back from their global assignments. “Nope,” I said, “haven’t met anyone in a long time.”
He wrote me a prescription consisting of several medicines. “Do I need to take antibiotics?” I enquired. “Not if you don’t want,” he said, eliminating the first capsules from the list. It appeared, the fever medicine wasn’t required because the one for cold had a paracetamol in it; I didn’t need so many others either, so on my recommendation I was left with just one pill for a cold and a syrup for cough — nothing else. “Guess this makes me a doctor too,” I giggled nervously, upsetting the good man who decided, after all, that some more tests were called for. A nurse was summoned, I was prodded and poked, the blood pressure noted, the pulse and heart rate recorded, blood samples taken, my temperature taken with various devices. All through, the doctor maintained the poise of a professional mourner.
Garrulous doctors may be anathema, but those who respond in monosyllables are the harder to deal with. Finding no cause to detain me any longer, he handed me a depleted prescription chart. For how many days was I to take the medicine? “Five,” he said melancholically. “But if it isn’t an anti-biotic course, can’t I just stop when I’m feeling better?” I asked. “Okay,” he responded glumly. “But if I don’t feel better,” I said, “I’ll come back to see you.” “No, no,” he said. “When you register at the counter, they’ll assign you to another doctor.” I think I’m more hurt than ill.