I fear that there is something fundamental that we're leaving out of the training of our medical people. They treat illnesses, as best they can ( I assume), but they don't treat people.
It starts with your first experience of production line medicine. Having made your appointment and turning up in the sure hope of a kindly figure in a tastefully decorated consulting room, you are disappointed to be thrust - medicare number first - into the cold white hands of the machines. The flashing one, the one that crushes your arm, the one that blows onto your eyes and the famous machine that goes 'ping'! The only actual human contact happens between the computer operator and the machine. Gentle healing hands - brought to you by Microsoft.
Then the waiting room. Set up by women, I'm sure. Men would know better. You hang on until there's at least a one person gap between you and the bloke next to you; you don't say to someone "Take a seat in the waiting room" when the only available chair is wedged between the snoring octogenarian and the lady who looks threateningly jovial and likely to want to talk to you about either or both of her gall stones and her grandchildren. You can bet she doesn't even know that the phone in my hand is a body-language shield against all human interaction. These are medical services. We're here because we're sick. Hasn't anyone told you that illness spreads through proximity to others? A respectful distance between patients please.
While we're on seats, could someone please tell me the name of the designer of waiting room furniture? There's real genius there. It must take inspiration, perspiration and an endless attention to the art of frustration to design furniture that is uncomfortable for everyone - regardless of height, size, weight or buttock radius. The industry award winner must be the ED designer. There are people bleeding to death in shocking discomfort because, no matter how much agony they put themselves through moving around to get comfortable, it will be futile; there will always be an awkward curve or protruding plastic nodule that wedges itself somewhere personal.
And I'm sick, not stupid. There's no need to speak to me like an imbecile - that's you not me, by the way. A clear, simple explanation of what you want me to do and why will suffice; I don't need a jolly happy little voice, cajoling me into having my medicine. You don't need to end your sentences with "for me" (as in "Just open your mouth for me") nor do you need to use a tone of voice that implies a sticker and a lollipop for good boys who cooperate. At my age, good boys who cooperate want something a good deal more than that but, as that seems not to be an option, a mature, adult request will do just fine, thank you.
Finally, I can accept uncertainty. I've long since joined Nietzsche - I'm beyond good and evil, right and wrong, well and sick. I know that there are shades, some of them deadly, in between and I know that you can't cure or even diagnose everything in a fifteen minute consultation. It's OK to tell me that you don't know or that you can't tell at this stage. Go right ahead and give me the full range of possibilities. I'm sure the worst you're going to tell me is nothing like the worst I've thought about at 2am when my mind is wandering, like the bimbo in the horror movies, refusing to turn the lights on and realising too late that what it thought was just a tree branch is, in fact, a nightmare from the depths of the scriptwriter's imagination. Just tell me the truth - I'm already haunted by Freddy.
And the bloody machine that goes 'ping'!
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