When I went for an annual checkup--at the urging of my wife--I took pride in being a picture of beaming health, an example of what people could and should be like. Doctors were for those who wouldn't.
The old exalted view of the doctors, august and omniscient, is long gone. We know them to be people like ourselves, knowledgeable, though we are able to confront them with alternative diagnoses and treatment we've found online.
This most recent bout of illness convinces me, though that fitness itself is no charm against a persistent microbe, such as has lodged in my lungs. All my miles are rendered moot. What good fitness on the periphery, arms and legs, when the core is vulnerable?
My doctor is from the Phillipines, very affable, always bustling around his clinic, in and out of waiting rooms, but taking time to listen when I describe my symptoms. Okay, so some of the things I've been to see him about recently were not emergencies, were self-correcting; still I'm a little nonplussed when he doesn't get excited about my problems as I do. No grand maladies, no exotic diseases, just what loss his patents get. He sure I'm happy to know that nothing is out of the ordinary.
And treatments? Well, sometimes a prescription, sometimes some simple advice most of which comes down to: wait, it will get better. I think, 'Does this guy keep up with the latest advances in...?' but then, by gosh, I do get better. He's a less-is-more kind of guy. I haven't seen him handle an emergency or a real conundrum, so I stand to be corrected.
One's physician is supposed to be a confidante, a holder of deep personal secrets, privy counselor to one's corporal realm, but my doctor seems more interested in keeping me from taking myself too seriously. After all, he's a busy guy with lots of patients whose health concerns seem to them center-of-the-world issues. Perhaps he's practiced in talking us all down to the rather mundane ailments and treatments that really afflict us.
Still, this stuffed and greasy nose, this bird perpetually flapping in my chest ready to caw out raw cough, this weakness of voice and wooziness of head, and for a weak now, and yes, better, but not enough and certainly not quick enough, doesn't this deserve a name, a distinguished name, even a eyebrow-raising name, and some commiseration, and a prompt full counter-attack using all resources.
Instead, you give me a course of antibiotic pills, advice to rest and an invite back if nothing changes in a week or so. I hope this tantruming-monster inside me is impressed because I'm underwhelmed. But you're probably right. Time, and the right stuff, is on my side.
Who knows? Maybe you're a William Carlos Williams at night or on your house calls (if your make any, which I doubt). 'There is a woman in our town...' the New Jersey poet-doctor wrote in one passage that ended, 'if ever I see you again, as daily I have sought you without success, I'll speak to you, alas too late!'
I don't sense that urgency in you, Herr Dr, but it's okay to confirm again that things are still going on as they should, a miracle yes but a standard one. Let these kinds of visits extend long into the future.
The old exalted view of the doctors, august and omniscient, is long gone. We know them to be people like ourselves, knowledgeable, though we are able to confront them with alternative diagnoses and treatment we've found online.
This most recent bout of illness convinces me, though that fitness itself is no charm against a persistent microbe, such as has lodged in my lungs. All my miles are rendered moot. What good fitness on the periphery, arms and legs, when the core is vulnerable?
My doctor is from the Phillipines, very affable, always bustling around his clinic, in and out of waiting rooms, but taking time to listen when I describe my symptoms. Okay, so some of the things I've been to see him about recently were not emergencies, were self-correcting; still I'm a little nonplussed when he doesn't get excited about my problems as I do. No grand maladies, no exotic diseases, just what loss his patents get. He sure I'm happy to know that nothing is out of the ordinary.
And treatments? Well, sometimes a prescription, sometimes some simple advice most of which comes down to: wait, it will get better. I think, 'Does this guy keep up with the latest advances in...?' but then, by gosh, I do get better. He's a less-is-more kind of guy. I haven't seen him handle an emergency or a real conundrum, so I stand to be corrected.
One's physician is supposed to be a confidante, a holder of deep personal secrets, privy counselor to one's corporal realm, but my doctor seems more interested in keeping me from taking myself too seriously. After all, he's a busy guy with lots of patients whose health concerns seem to them center-of-the-world issues. Perhaps he's practiced in talking us all down to the rather mundane ailments and treatments that really afflict us.
Still, this stuffed and greasy nose, this bird perpetually flapping in my chest ready to caw out raw cough, this weakness of voice and wooziness of head, and for a weak now, and yes, better, but not enough and certainly not quick enough, doesn't this deserve a name, a distinguished name, even a eyebrow-raising name, and some commiseration, and a prompt full counter-attack using all resources.
Instead, you give me a course of antibiotic pills, advice to rest and an invite back if nothing changes in a week or so. I hope this tantruming-monster inside me is impressed because I'm underwhelmed. But you're probably right. Time, and the right stuff, is on my side.
Who knows? Maybe you're a William Carlos Williams at night or on your house calls (if your make any, which I doubt). 'There is a woman in our town...' the New Jersey poet-doctor wrote in one passage that ended, 'if ever I see you again, as daily I have sought you without success, I'll speak to you, alas too late!'
I don't sense that urgency in you, Herr Dr, but it's okay to confirm again that things are still going on as they should, a miracle yes but a standard one. Let these kinds of visits extend long into the future.
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