:: Dictated But Not Read ::
Musings from the ''Miracle Girl''| [::..archive..::] |
|---|
| Things That Have Been Said About Me |
| You are the Minx. |
| She plays taller than her height. |
| You have a refreshing attitude. |
| You're such a renaissance woman. |
| She's not much of a biller. |
| You are very angry. |
| You are so self aware. |
| You need a more sophisticated haircut. |
| You are not afraid of anything. |
| You have a great attitude. |
| Your life is like a Seinfeld episode. |
| You are winsome. |
| You look great in hats. |
| Miracle girl. |
| I am belligerently conciliatory. |
| You've got it big time. |
Saturday, February 21, 2004
Professionalism 101When I was in law school we had to take a required ethics course. It was a ridiculous class which my friends and I renamed “Don’t Fuck Your Clients” because that seemed to be the professor’s focus. We figured anyone who could not figure that out on his own was probably going to have lots of problems as a lawyer which were not likely to be solved by an ethics course. I have reached the conclusion that doctors are not even given these rudimentary lessons in appropriate behavior.
Since 1999 I have been a hypochondriac. I do not spend days on end in bed or anything - I am far too ambitious for that. I do however, believe that I am ill when I am not and I do go to the doctor with some frequency. I did almost die of pneumonia after feeling perfectly fine one day and feeling deathly ill the next. I recently described that illness to a physician and he said “Wow. It sounds like you had the first case of SARS.” O.K, it was probably not SARS, but it was a rather scary illness and no one ever really diagnosed me.
A hypochondriac’s best friend is the “doc in a box”. The “doc in a box” is a walk in clinic where you can see a doctor for your minor illness of the moment without an appointment. A few weeks ago I was feeling really exhausted, I had a few dizzy spells, and a bit of tightness in my chest. I think most busy and healthy thirty-three year olds would probably have ignored the symptoms and gone on with their week, but I am not most healthy thirty-three year olds. I left an unsuccessful mediation session at 4:00 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon to head to my favorite “doc in a box.” Well, that’s not precisely accurate I left the mediation got into my client’s Mercedes and drove to the opposing attorney’s car where we retrieved his ski jacket and his children’s ski jackets. Once that was done I heaved my briefcase into my front seat (the trunk was full of another file) and drove to the “doc in a box” while checking voicemail, returning several telephone calls, and remarkably enough not killing anyone else on the road. My experiences have been very good at this “doc in a box” including being turned away without treatment when I was not really sick.
I arrived around 4:30 p.m. and sat in the waiting room carrying on a conversation with my client about how mistaken she was for considering going back to her manipulative alcoholic husband after we had negotiated a great settlement. I realized other people in the waiting room might be listening and realized how inappropriate I was being. I offered to call her the next day. As I hung up the phone, I could not help but think that the chest pain was probably the result of excessive stress. I called a friend, looked over a file for another case, and by that time it was my turn. The very sympathetic nurse who took my vital signs and asked about my symptoms waved me off when I explained that it was probably nothing and that the symptoms were very mild. He insisted I was right to come in. He told me to put a gown on top so the doctor could listen to my chest. He said, “Dr. S. will be in a minute. He’s here today.” I got the sense that I was lucky that Dr. S. was there.
Dr. S. breezed into the room reading the nurse’s notes and said, “So you’re a weak woman.” When I looked confused and did not respond he said, “You’re fatigued.” “Um, yeah, I guess.” I did not add that I had been considering laying back and taking a brief nap while waiting for him. He asked about my prior pneumonia and as I frequently do, by way of justification I said, “Yes, it was pretty awful. I almost died.” He said, “Now, who told you that?” He said it as though I was a child who could not possibly understand these complicated medical issues like near death experiences.
Dr. S looked briefly in my ears and nose and listened to my chest. (He did not look in my throat.) He concluded that there was some irritation in my nose and that my chest was not entirely clear. Based upon my “history” Dr. S. wanted me to take some antibiotics and a decongestant. He began writing my prescriptions and then noticed on my chart that I am an attorney. He stopped and asked, “What kind of lawyer are you?” I responded without thinking that I do mostly divorce and custody work. Since I am the rare lawyer who enjoys what she does and is proud of her work I do not hesitate to admit it. In this case I should have hesitated or maybe even lied. He immediately launched into, “When are they going to fix those child support guidelines?” I should at this point note that I am a major proponent of my state’s child support guidelines. I have written an article on the topic which I am proud to say was relied upon by the governor’s commission the last time they reviewed the guidelines. So to say that he struck a sore point would be a bit of an understatement. I asked him what was wrong with the guidelines. This is when I confirmed for a certainty that they do not offer Professionalism 101 in medical school. Dr. S. launched into a diatribe during which he called his ex-wife a bitch and somehow, though I do not recall exactly how lumped me in with her. I am guessing it was based on our gender. He also told me how much higher his I.Q. is than any state judge in the state. Dr. S. insisted that he pays more child support for his one child than it takes to support the other two he has with his current wife. Throughout this tirade Dr. S. was sitting between me and the door and I was dressed in my suit slacks on the bottom and a hospital gown on top. I did not have any way to escape him. Also, since I was sick I had neither the inclination nor the energy to fight as hard as I ordinarily would about this topic. He went on for about ten minutes though it felt much longer to me. He concluded his lecture by telling me that I make my money off of people who cannot agree about their children or some similar quip. When he was done venting he told me to take the antibiotics and the decongestant and to come back if I did not feel better in five days and to come back sooner if I felt worse. If I was feeling more clever I might have noted that I was feeling worse right then than I had when I arrived.
I left the office in a haze. I had to return several client phone calls on my endless drive through traffic to get to the drugstore in my neighborhood. By the time I got home I was exhausted. I was also stunned by what had happened to me. I called my friend M. and recounted my story. I pointed out that while I wanted to complain I did not want to be black listed at the “doc in a box”. Being the always helpful and resourceful friend he found a way for me to lodge a complaint anonymously through a website. I had every intention of doing so until the next afternoon when my phone rang at the office. The caller introduced himself by first and last name without the prefix “doctor” so I was confused. After a second I realized who he was, Dr. S. He asked how I was feeling. I said I was doing o.k. but still tired. He had called, he said, to apologize for his behavior the day before. He admitted that he should not be arguing with his patient. (I would not have called it arguing so much as berating but why quibble with words.) Dr. S. mentioned he had been up all night the night before and had had a long day and he just lost it. He said he had tried to reach me at home the night before but when I did not answer he figured I must be “out partying”. I had in fact ignored the call because it was a blocked number and I did not want to be bothered. Dr. S. did not leave a message. Dr. S. tried to carry on a friendly casual conversation for a few minutes and for reasons I cannot explain I played along with him. Dr. S. told me the days he works at that particular location and that next time I came in he would see me for no charge. He repeated that I should come back in if I was not feeling better. “No thanks,” I thought.
I wonder if the medical school equivalent to “Don’t Fuck Your Clients” is “Fuck Bedside Manner.”
D.B.N.R.
