I have always hated going to the doctor. I’m afraid of doctors. The only reason I will make a doctor’s appointment is because I think I’m going to die (probably in the next twenty-four hours). I avoid doctors even on a personal level as a rule because I think they are sort of bad luck. Now this may not be fair, but it is what it is. My daughter-in-law, Kate, has a darling friend who happens to be a doctor. I actually enjoy this woman’s company, but we never discuss medical matters.
My internist is a great guy. He’s my age, and if he were not a doctor, he would be my friend. He knows I don’t like doctors, and I swear he doesn’t really blame me. I told you he’s a good guy. I go to the doctor once a year for an annual check up. He distracts me with funny conversation while he goes over me with a fine tooth comb. My doctor then writes up the order for blood work and tells me he will call me with the results.
When I get the call saying everything is just fine with my lab work results, I feel like a million bucks. Good for another year at least! Hooray!
When I have peculiar things that happen to my body, I figure it’s probably going to go away by itself. I believe in the “less is more” approach to health. I once spent a week with three fractures in my foot waiting for it to go away by itself. Okay, that’s a bad example. That funny pain, or that weird spot, or that “unusual” thing that turns up, just give it some time. That’s my philosophy!
I have called my doctor on rare occasion (maybe once every five years or so) because I think I am probably dying right then. His calm demeanor and astute advice telling me to go to the Emergency Room usually calm me right down. I tell him thank you and I feel so much better. I have yet to go to the ER since by the time I hang up, I realize: 1. I am not dying. And 2. I would never go and see random doctors at some hospital unless I really was dying.
Several years ago, I had something called a “frozen shoulder” which is just what it sounds like. Ouch! Okay, my internist sent me to a specialist who examined me and more or less told me that this sort of thing happens to women sometimes. He smiled gently at me, and let me know that he knew I was lonely and longing for attention. This doctor was sure that was the real point of my visit to him. When I relayed this to my internist, he cracked up laughing first, and sent me to someone else immediately. The new specialist gave me a shot of cortisone in the shoulder and sent me on my way. No muss, no fuss. And thank God no return visits.
I don’t actually hate doctors. I just hate going to see them. My doctor is a wonderful person and an excellent physician who does not mind at all if I avoid him like the plague.