The medical profession is pissing me off. Where does the problem lie?
Is it with me? Or is it the doctor?
I had slept over at my daughter’s apartment which she shared with a number of fellow college girls. While there, I went about cleaning every dirty thing I saw; wash rooms and back yard included. It was a relatively small backyard space, and I was raking some leaves when I suddenly felt a sharp stabbing pain on my left ribcage part.
After a while, the pain subsided and I proceeded with my task. The stabbing pain came again, and as I tried to move my left arm in order to feel my rib cage, the pain suddenly traveled towards the center of my chest. I dropped my cleaning tools and slowly walked towards the apartment. I took a sit at the worn sofa and turned the fan on because I felt a shortness of breath and I was sweating profusely.
I tried to relax and meditated awhile after taking a glass of water. The pain became tolerable. I actually felt much better. I didn’t tell my daughter, lest she worry. It was exam week. However, on my way home, I stopped by one hospital and headed for the ER. I called my youngest son and told him to come over and pick me up later from the hospital.
I answered questions; I told my story. They made me lie in bed, and did a series of lab tests and ECG; took almost two hours. Then the doctor called me to his desk and gave me instructions about the prescription he made. Two medicine names and scribbled 3 x day for one and once a day with the other.
I continued to sit there; waiting for whatever was coming. But she was already starting to attend to some other patients. (Hey! What about me? Am I dying, Doc?) But they were only in my head. I wanted to scream. (Are you through with me? ) The least she could have done was say: That’s it. Go home now.)
I walked towards her and started to ask questions.
Are you through with me, Doc? Just a nod.
Was there no problem with my heart or anything, Doc? I already gave you a prescription. Take those.
And then she was out the door, leaving instructions to the nurses and other personnel as she walked.
I was so dumb-founded! I forgot about my chest pain. I became more concerned with my elevating blood pressure!
“Son! Take me home!”
On the ride home, an avalanche of memories rushed inside my head.
I remembered taking my kids to the doctor or the hospital a number of times, being given prescriptions, some instructions and then shoved out the door so the next patient could get in.
I remembered having an attack of nausea, severe dizziness and a banging headache. The family doctor came and asked my household a few questions and then injected something on my arm while I lay there like dying. Then he was off. I felt better after a few hours.
I remembered my youngest son, aged two then, who needed confinement and a series of lab tests. They put him in an oxygen tent (me included, because my baby cried without me there), with dextrose; was nebullized every four hours and given medicine. On the third day, I couldn’t contain myself anymore. I demanded to know what was wrong with my son! Broncho Pneumonia with asthma and an extra disease on the third day… measles. “Well, thanks! Now I know!”
And so forth and so on . . .
I wonder if it’s a medical routine, a procedure or a strategy that has something to do with “making patients and their families less stressed”? As in… the lesser one knows, the better?
However, being of positive disposition, I would like to believe that most probably, lots of folks have a strong preference simply to trust what doctors and other professionals tell them, assuming that if they don’t hear bad news, there isn’t any. Perhaps, survey says, too, that some people feel completely overwhelmed by being given too much information, too?
Well, whatever… there are probably a lot of acceptable reasons why doctors don’t tell much or tell nothing.
BUT… I just hope and pray that it’s not a case of “doctors are not telling because they don’t know either!”