COLUMN: What’s worse: Being sick or visiting the doc?
As if being sick in the first place isn’t annoying enough, we are then forced to go to the doctor’s office, where I might add we are just surrounded by more sick people. The whole process is just getting to me.
My most recent trip to the doctors office found me sitting in the front room of the office waiting patiently for the mother of seven next to me to finish reading the only magazine in the building without the words “pre-natal” somewhere on the cover. I waited anxiously to no avail when a nurse entered the room. I looked at my watch knowing she must be coming to call my name to see the doctor. This was not the case. “Bill, the doctor can see you now.” She then walked by me, smiled and said, “How are you today?” I responded quickly, “Good thanks,” and then it hit me.
Good? I’m not good. If I were good I wouldn’t be here waiting to be tapped, tested, scoped and so on. All signs point to not goodness and we both knew it.
Finally my name was called and I was escorted to yet another room in which the doctor is not but yet another nurse who asked “How are you doing today?” as she read over my chart which tells her all the things wrong with me. I didn’t even hesitate and answered “Well, thanks,” remembering an old friend very adamant about the proper use of “good” and “well.”
If this isn’t upsetting enough, I couldn’t help but be taken back to the first time I realized the man or woman who had just weighed me, taken my temperature, blood pressure, any and all bodily fluids, inquired about my symptoms and so forth was in fact NOT the doctor. “Okay, thanks for your blood. The doctor will be here in just a minute or two.” What? Then who on Earth are you? What is wrong with these people? I’ve never gotten over it.
I’ve never gotten over the taking of my blood either. I’m not talking large, I.V., squeeze-a-ball-in-your-hand-and-watch-your-blood-disappear amounts of blood but rather the ever-dreaded pricking of the finger. I didn’t know it was possible to feel your pulse so hard on the tip of your finger for days and days. They shouldn’t call it “pricking your finger” but instead call it “slicing your phalange with a sharp metal object, leaving a wound similar to an incredibly painful and annoying paper cut, only deeper.” Perhaps an acronym would work better.
Anyway, as per usual “just a minute or two” turned into 17 minutes at least. I find it highly disturbing to be lied to by someone in the medical profession. I think it’s safe to say the only people you can truly trust in a doctor’s office are the receptionists who tells you how much money you owe for the nap you took on the doctor’s chair/examination bed covered by a sheet of paper bound to make any kid with a crayon jealous.
Tick tock, tick tock. After the nurse left and I awoke from my boredom-induced nap, I tore off the piece of paper bed covering I had drooled on and looked at my watch. 4:34 p.m. Hmmm. Still no doctor. My appointment was at 3:50 p.m. right? Right. Well, I was asked how I was doing at 4 p.m., so perhaps that counts as the start of the doctor’s visit and they’re really not late at all.
Then when I thought all hope was lost, the door creaked open and the doctor entered. Without looking up from his clipboard he said “How are you feeling today Bill?” Sigh. Back to square one.
(For those curious and interested, it turned out I had mono. Yes mono, the disease there is no medication for and when diagnosed, the doctor tells you to eat more oranges.)
Hilary Ingoldsby is a junior majoring in Speech Communication.
Comments can be sent to
hil14@hotmail.com