What Is It About Doctors?
In my opinion, when medical students graduate to become doctors they should be given a high horse at the same time as they receive their degree. I can't think of members of any other profession who, by nature of a simple title, are automatically assumed to be highly intelligent and competent at their jobs. I suppose if we didn't think highly of our doctors then we might as well be sharing our personal problems with the man down the pub - that bloke with the sweaty armpits and a guaranteed solution for the Middle East crisis, the credit crunch, and premature hair loss as well as a sure fire winner in the four thirty at Ascot.
Don't get me wrong, it's not easy becoming a doctor. I knew several medics in my student days who looked little better than the cadavers they practised on. It took serious dedication on their part to smoke sixty Silk Cut a day and live entirely on fast food for several years. At least the night nurse helped them get a little exercise, if not sleep. Even when they qualified, and went their separate ways down the brain surgery or general practice routes the stress continued. Only now they had to make life or death decisions such as: Should I get out the Black and Decker or just prescribe a couple of headache tablets? Is that patient really having a baby or do PizzaGoGo have a promotion on? and Was it four scalpels we started with or three?
Doctors have to deal with important issues like these every day, and I certainly don't envy them the task, so surely their responsible roles and the size of their pay packets are enough to justify our commonly held opinion that doctors are bastions of professional etiquette? Or has our faith been misplaced all along?
Recently I have begun to suspect that some of the people who take the Hippocratic oath are confusing it with the hypocritical oath - the one where they cross their fingers behind their backs at the ceremony - and aren't really as professional or as clued up as they would like us to believe. I think it best if - in the manner of all good medical journals - I offer up some real life case studies out of my own family's experiences for you to judge for yourselves.
Case Study 1: Mistaken Identity
My father-in-law, Eric, went into hospital for an NHS knee replacement recently. Geoff, my brother-in-law drove him there and Eric was pleased to be given his own room with an en-suite toilet. Geoff was present as the nurses confirmed his father's details and took pulse and blood pressure readings. They said the consultant, Dr Y, would be along to see Eric soon. Thirty minutes later, with no sign of the consultant, Eric announced he needed to go to the toilet, so he shuffled off to his en-suite loo using his sticks for support. Geoff remained sitting by the bed reading a newspaper when the door burst open, and in strode a smartly suited man carrying a file of papers.
"Good morning," said the man, "I'm Dr Y, and I'll be performing the operation today."
"Morning, Doctor," replied Geoff starting to rise.
The doctor waved him back saying, "No need to get up." He leaned casually against the bed, extracted a paper from his file and triple-clicked the button on his Parker ball point. "Right," he said in a brisk tone. "I need to ask a few questions. Is there a history of heart disease, diabetes, angina, or high blood pressure in your family?"
"Er, not that I'm aware of," replied Geoff.
"What about strokes, epilepsy, mental problems?"
Geoff shook his head, "No, our family's always been pretty healthy."
"Jolly good," said Dr Y, scribbling on his form. "And can you confirm which is the problematic knee?"
Geoff shifted in his seat and thought carefully before replying. "I think it's the right one but I'm not 100% sure."
Dr Y looked up from his notes in surprise. There was a patronising edge to his voice as he said, "Surely it's a simple question to answer? Which one is painful?"
Geoff shrugged.
Dr Y lowered his papers and stared at Geoff. "Are you telling me, you have no idea which leg requires a replacement knee?"
"I'm pretty sure it's the right one, but I'd hate to be proved wrong," said Geoff.
Shaking his head, Dr Y opened his file, pulled out an X-ray, and held it up to the light. He tutted, replaced the X-ray, and said, "In all my years as a surgeon, I've never come across a case where there has been such ambiguity over a limb so in need of a new knee."
"Perhaps you should ask my father," said Geoff.
"Your father?" said a confused Dr Y. "What's your father got to do with it?"
With perfect timing, the door to the toilet opened and Eric hobbled out on two sticks. Geoff frowned and said, "Because it's his knee."
Dr Y stared at Eric and Geoff stared at Dr Y as enlightenment dawned on them both.
Case Study 2: How Not To Inspire Confidence
Many years ago, my dentist referred me to the hospital for the removal of four wisdom teeth. My job at the time came with free private medical care but work commitments meant it was six weeks after seeing the consultant, Dr Z, before I was available to have the operation. The hospital was in a converted Georgian mansion house set in its own grounds in deepest Essex. It looked beautiful in the spring sunshine when my wife and I arrived one Friday morning for my appointment.
We were shown to a private room where my wife was plied with cups of tea while I flicked through the TV channels in search of something to take my mind off the Nil By Mouth rule. An hour passed, then another. Gillian joked that Dr Z was probably out having a pub lunch. After another hour, we were beginning to think he might have adjourned to the golf course as well until we heard a commotion outside the door to my room.
I switched off the television as the door opened and in hopped a male patient on crutches with a white plaster cast covering his entire right leg from hip to toe. Black jogging pants, cut short over the injured leg, preserved his dignity and a charcoal grey shirt with matching tie and a tweed jacket completed his outfit. It was strange attire for a patient.
Only it wasn't a patient. The thin moustache, goatee beard and sunken, but piercing eyes confirmed his identity as Dr Z.
Dr Z thrust his crutches at the female nurse who was following him into the room before hopping over to my unoccupied bed and sitting heavily on the pristine sheets and raising his bad leg. "Skiing accident!" said Dr Z in his commanding voice. "Tibia and fibia. Clean breaks. First day at work. Looking forward to getting back in the saddle!"
To say that my wife and I were taken aback is an understatement. The nurse - obviously used to seeing plastered doctors - calmly handed Dr Z a tan leather briefcase from which he took out a sheaf of papers.
There was a certain irony about a doctor using my hospital bed to rest his injured leg whilst I sat in a chair and answered questions about my health. My eyes kept returning to his plaster cast which looked like the exaggerated ones they used in the old Carry On films. I fully expected Hattie Jacques to burst in and be bombarded with innuendo along the lines of, "Come in, Matron. Just the person to help me get my leg over!" or "Matron, would you hold onto my crutch for a second?" or even, "Give me a hand with my injured member, Matron, I can't seem get it up...on the bed!" Bring back Sid James is all I can say.
A nudge from my wife brought me back to reality and I braved a question of my own. "Dr Z...don't get me wrong, but will you be able to operate on my teeth with your leg in a cast?"
"Of course," replied Dr Z. He rapped the plaster of Paris with his knuckles. "Give me a stool to pop this on and another to sit on and Bob's your uncle!" He leaned forward and in a conspiratorial whisper said, "To be perfectly frank, after two weeks stuck at home, I'll be glad to blow the rust off my instruments and get cracking on your teeth."
As a doctor, he wasn't inspiring me with a lot of confidence. Gillian openly smirked beside me. I gulped before saying, "The dentist said it was a straightforward operation. How long do you think it'll take?"
Dr Z pursed his lips, "Mmm, I don't want to rush things," he said. "Not that I can anyway. Two of your wisdom teeth are partially erupted which means there's only a small hole in your gum and jaw line where I can get at them."
I wasn't sure I wanted to know more but Gillian did. "What does that mean, Doctor?" she asked.
"Nothing problematic," said Dr Z with a dismissive wave. "It just means I have to use a surgical hammer and chisel to shatter each tooth where it sits and extract the fragments through the holes piece by piece. Saves cutting open the jaw you see."
My face flushed and the room suddenly felt hot. Dr Z packed his papers in his briefcase, exchanged it for the crutches the nurse was holding, and pulled himself upright. "Better get ready for battle," he exclaimed before hopping from the room.
Three hours later I woke up looking like a chipmunk with the broken pieces of my wisdom teeth in a sample jar next to my bed. Even with cheeks the size of golf balls, I was feeling rather happy due to the post-op medication they'd given me to wake up. Which was more than my brother-in-law, Geoff, could say after he woke up following a similar operation. When he came to, he had two black eyes, a sore throat and Vaseline smothered all over his lips. He nearly punched the surgeon when he saw him.
I suppose by Geoff's standards, I was lucky to have Dr Z.
...
So there you have it, two factual examples that highlight how much we entrust our health and lives to people we barely know. But what can we conclude from this? Do we demand to know every aspect of our treatment before we let them loose on our bodies? I for one am not sure I really want to know. All I can say is, short of being referred to a doctor wearing a duck outfit and going "Quack!" I'll carry on accepting what they say and do in good faith and glorious ignorance.
But I do draw the line at Vaseline.
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