Dubious Doctors
Chris Zasada June 1, 2005

I’m sure just about everyone has been to a family doctor and has had one of these experiences. The botched appointment, the lethal waiting room, the eternal waiting; it's all there. Why are there so many problems with our family health care system? Why is it that, in a society where we can get a full course meal in under a minute (consisting of a number three combo AND chicken nuggets), we can’t expect similar effectively in our doctors?

For one, there are a lot of people going to the few doctors that are available. And this is your health we’re talking about here, so you don’t want to rush through the process. The most compelling reason, of course, is that practicing physicians make more in a week than you’ll ever have in your life, so they can pretty much do what they want. Plus, they can write you prescriptions for all kinds of drugs that will shut you up.

Let me tell you about my experience with the doctor over the last couple of years while offering a step-by-step guide about the process of going to the doctor. And before we go on, I want to assure the people that don’t like me for a variety of reasons that I am not dying, so you can put your dancing shoes away, because my grave is empty and will remain that way until I see fit.

Finding a doctor: The first step, of course, is finding a physical doctor. This shouldn’t be hard, since there are probably dozens, if not hundreds of doctors in your area. The problem is, there are about 1,562 times that many people vying to seem them simultaneously. If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to make an appointment sometime within the next few decades, by which time whatever ailment you had will have killed you. This is fine with the doctors, who will still charge you for the visit once your appointment comes up.

One thing you might notice is the hefty amount of foreign doctors. This varies by area, so for a point of reference, in the Toledo area, there are about three Caucasian, American family doctors. While foreign doctors are probably as good, if not better than the domestic breed, communication can sometimes be an issue. A friend of mine searched out an American doctor because of this, and accidentally visited a doctor from Korea who didn’t speak English very well. He had to use the nurse as a translator and basically write out his own prescription. So one thing you’ve better make sure of is that you and the doctor can understand each other, lest you end up receiving a vasectomy when you intended to fix a cold.

My doctor, of course, is one of the foreign ones, chosen because he works in the same office as my mother’s. In addition to typical doctor personality flaws, such as subtly insisting I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to my health, he constantly insists that I have sleep apnea, even though I don’t have any actual symptoms. Seriously, he thought he was really onto something and started running off the symptoms. I think we got to the second one, at which point I denied having it, and a look of disappointment came over his face. Damn, he thought he had it, and his stupid poopy-head patient went and ruined his fun. He really hates patients.

Don't feel so bad for him, though, because he kept diagnosing me with other diseases to fill the void. I think right now it's acid reflux, a unique condition where your stomach insists that you need more food, so it fires some stomach acid up your esophagus in an attempt to eat it. I love these diseases where the body tries to kill itself. It says so much about the human condition.

Keep in mind I didn't have the symptoms of acid reflux until after I went and saw him. But that didn't stop him from putting me on some prescription medication for the disease, which made me sick, and as soon as I stopped taking it, I was shooting more acid than Cary Grant. Now I'm on another type of pill, which makes me less miserable, probably until I die. Our wonderful medical professionals!

Scheduling an Appointment: Once you’ve found a doctor that you’re reasonably sure will understand what you’re telling him and that you can understand yourself, it’s time to schedule the appointment. The best times are after work so you can allow yourself plenty of time for any emergencies or plan changes, so you can bet you won’t get those times. You’ll probably get stuck with something right in the middle of the day, making sure you suck up maximum sick time (or, if you’re part of a particularly evil corporation, your “time bank”). Regardless, you should try to get to the doctor’s office at least fifteen minutes early. You won’t get out sooner or anything, this is just part of the procedure.

This is pretty easy for me, because my job usually requires that I show up at some point in the day. I get paid six dollars and hour, though, so stop your whining. I need some kind of perk.

The Waiting Room: After you check in with the receptionist, it’s time to go to the waiting room, a place that lingers with an air of melancholy. Think about this: how many people actually go into the doctor for a check up when they're healthy? None. Most of us just wait until something is really wrong, so the waiting room turns into a giant cauldron of pestilence. The place is filled with people with putrid diseases, or at least people who think they have putrid diseases and are just acting the part. People cough, sniff, sneeze, vomit, wheeze, drool, slime, and particpate in many other illness-related activities. So learn to get comfortable, because the waiting room is going to be your new home for the next hour.

The “waiting” room is more literal than you’d give it credit for. You’re probably going to wait at least forty-five minutes, so it’s a good idea to bring something to keep yourself occupied for the time, like a log to whittle a replica of the Eiffel tower. When the time does come for you to be called, you’ll likely question, at least briefly, why someone is shouting your name, because it was so long ago since you started this ordeal, and the reason for being there may have slipped your mind.

I generally sit as far away as I can from everyone, because I’m not there because I’m sick, dammit!

The Visit: I’m not sure if other places vary their procedures, so for the sake of this article, I’ll just describe my experiences. The first thing they do is weigh me. Weight is a big thing in the world of health. If you’re sick, they automatically blame weight, even if you’re there because you’re arm got torn off (“Good for you, Mister Jones! You lost six pounds!”). It’s also interesting to note that they’ve never asked me to remove any clothing, which wouldn’t have a great impact on my final weight tally, unless I happen to be smuggling bricks in my shorts. If your doctor or nurse asks you to strip down, throw a handful of those plastic cone things they stick in your ear and run away while they're distracted.

After weighing me and looking solemnly at the results, the nurse will put me in one of the examining rooms and begin asking personal questions. Interestingly, I’ve had more help from the nurses than the actual doctor, since they usually take my blood pressure and talk to me, burdens the high-paid doctor should never have to be burdened with. After the nurse leaves, she seals me in the examining room, and it’s time once again for another vigorous round of waiting.

I love this part. Usually, I sit there quietly, listening for signs of the doctor’s presence. I'll usually hear him talking in various places around the room, but I never actually see him. I’ll hear him right outside the door, and I optimistically prepare for him to come through, but then he disappears again, and I go back to waiting. I wait, wait, and wait, doing mundane things to pass the time, like push-ups, fumbling with my PDA, and checking out the disturbing medical displays that illustrate just some of the ways my body can kill me.

Eventually, I hear a knock at the door. I could never figure this out. I mean, I’m waiting there for eternity for this guy to show up at his own place, and he knocks before entering. What does he think I’m doing in there, giving one of the nurses a “personal examination?”

After I invite him into his examining room, he greets me by saying my name in a way that indicates that we’re the bestest friends in the world. He proceeds to read over the nurse’s findings and interjects some opinions of his own before telling me to hop up the examination bed.

If you’re like me, and if you visit this site, you must at least share some of my refined taste, you know how the doctor’s examination goes. First, the doctor listens to your heartbeat to make sure you’re still alive. If that goes okay, he listens to your breathing to make sure you have lungs and not gills, which would make you some evil alien bent on world domination (hey, doctors do more than you think for humanity). If you pass these tests, the doctor will insist on sticking lights and cone-thingies down your throat, ears, nose, eyes, and other openings in an attempt to diagnose most internal ailments without getting inside and looking around by cutting you open, which would be more efficient.

The human body is pretty amazing this way. If you take a standard complex machine, your VCR, for instance, and discover there is a problem, you have to open it up and examine all of its parts to find out that it was a terrible brand and stopped functioning because you used it. With the human body, most problems can be diagnosed simply by staring into one of the body’s orifices, which sounds more disturbing than being torn open, I admit, but at least you don’t have any physical scars, only psychological.

Interestingly enough, my doctor stopped looking down my orifices some time ago. He doesn’t even listen for a heartbeat, he simply makes sure that I’m breathing and manhandles my legs and stomach in what I hope is a professional examination, but I’m not too sure. I think he’s given up on me and is just pretending to look me over so I’ll continue to pay him. Either that or I’m taking up too much of his time by asking him questions, so he has to cut corners somewhere to get me out within the five minute time limit. Or maybe he just likes fondling me, in which case I think I have a lot of money and years of therapy coming my way.

The entire process really does last about five minutes, by the way.

After that, the doctor hands me whatever prescriptions or paper work he thinks he needs to produce and I’m ushered to the front counter to pay for the visit and schedule the next appointment. Last time, they insisted on subjecting me to blood work at some time. I hate blood work. I hate subjecting myself to being stabbed with my full knowledge of the stabbing occurring. In the ideal system, I wouldn’t see the stabbing coming. It would play out like this:

Doctor: Okay, Mister Zasada, you’re all ready to go, except we need one more thing.

Me: Okay, what do you… AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Doctor: Some blood work. Thank you, nurse.

Nurse Who Stabbed Me from Behind Wearing a Jason Voorhees-style Mask: No problem.

Sure, it would be unsettling, but at least it would get done.

So that’s my experience with the doctor. I’m sure a lot of you go through the same thing, so I just wanted to let you know you're not alone. It may be unpleasant and frustrating at times, but going to the doctor can help make you a healthier person, so long as the mask doesn’t obstruct the nurse’s aim.

Update: Three months later, Zasada went in for his blood work and had the disturbing experience of the blood NOT COMING OUT. At least at first. Sadly, the blood lab failed to do one important test, so the doctor threatened him with more blood work if he didn't shut up and get healthy.