Quack Quack Quack

Houston, we have a problem.

The problem is that medicine is an inexact science. And that most doctors, at their best, are not exactly rocket scientists.

First we have your garden variety lack of professionalism. Take, for example, the doctor prescribing my medication the summer I ended up in the hospital. He seemed far more interested in talking about sex than my psychological problems, at a time when I really needed help. Thanks doc. I know I’m cute. Could you maybe not contribute to my suicidal proclivities? Thank you so much.

Then we have the doctors that ignore the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing. You think I’m anorexic? Don’t tell my father. Legally I’m an adult and if that’s your professional opinion, you should be giving it to me.

Straight up incompetence is next. There was a doctor at a clinic in Caldwell, ID that barely looked at me, didn’t draw blood, and diagnosed me with a run-of-the-mill virus. You go home and get some rest, stupid college girl. Knowing that wasn’t the right diagnosis, I got a second opinion. Jeepers, it turned out that my white blood cell count was sky high. I had a severe case of mononucleosis. Thanks for the advice, first doctor, or as I like to call him, Doctor No.

Psychiatry is by far my favorite place to find incompetence and/or complete lack of regard for the person being treated. My counselor and psychiatrist that didn’t take me seriously when I said I thought I was suffering from postpartum depression. And they made light of my anxiety problems. Gee, you’ve had OCD since you were five? Here’s a nice handout on how to think your way out of general anxiety problems. You’ll somehow magically think your way out of this hell-hole you’ve mysteriously found yourself in. Best of luck!

Then there was the lovely woman I refer to as my Shrinky Dink. Oh, blurred vision and diarrhea is perfectly normal on this medication? How nice that you would prescribe it when my husband’s overseas and I’m stuck in BFE, WY trying to take care of my daughter on my own. Clearly driving, or even getting off the toilet, are inconsequential at best compared to my need for this medication!

It gets much, much worse. Oh you had a seizure? Let me send you to a neurologist for an MRI, it couldn’t be the medication. Oh how funny, you were referred to my husband, who happens to be a neurologist.  You have a lump in your throat? And you’ve been gaining a ton of weight? It couldn’t be a side effect, it must be cancer. Oh, you’re lactating. You must have breast cancer. You say you haven’t had your period? It’s surely early menopause. Or aliens impregnated you. Or it’s CANCER CANCER CANCER CANCER CANCER.

How many times do you need to tell a severely anxious person that she MIGHT have cancer? Because that sort of speculation gets disconcerting after oh, say, THE FIRST TIME YOU MENTION IT.

My question remains: they educate these people at some point, right? I heard you have to have a ton of education and training to be a doctor. But experience would indicate that I’m wrong.

My latest medical professional is more confident than competent, I am afraid. No, seriously, I am afraid. I think I may have to switch doctors. Your current psychiatric medication isn’t curing your blues? Let’s double it. Unfortunately I have a sordid history with that particular medication. Which includes a seizure and several other episodes of uncontrollable shaking, not just a tremor, but shaking so violent that I would sometimes fall down. Don’t they write this information down somewhere? Oh, right, they did on that one form, from my old psychiatrist. It is currently collecting dust, neatly tucked away in a government building next to The Lost Ark.

I know there are good doctors out there, somewhere. I must not have stumbled upon them yet. Let’s hope I don’t actually stumble and break something, because I might refuse treatment. My bad experiences have made me a little paranoid that these doctors are actually *trying* to kill me...