A good doctor is a miracle
For a good rheumatologist, in my opinion, what you want is the intersection of scientist and philosopher. This is a tough one. It requires the rigour of reacting to empirical evidence. It also requires looking at the greater patterns of the universe. How many people do you know like that?
I've had some bad rheumatologists. After my initial diagnosis by a GP, the first rheumatologist I met was in a fancy hospital in a fancy country. He gave me multivitamins, calcium tablets, and told me that he could surgically burn the nerves in my lower back so I wouldn't feel pain. (This does not work). I had turned 23 the previous week.
The next doctor I met was at a fancy hospital in this country, and he told me that this diagnosis was impossible. Get this: because women simply didn't get this disease. (In fact the male-female ratio is closer to 70:30. In fact poorly gendered data based on poorly gendered medicine is something I will keep coming back to). He asked me if there was a history of it in the family. I said there was not.
Impossible! he said, referring to my diagnosis. I said that it was, in fact, possible. We were both working hard at being polite because his wife and my mom play golf together, but that conversation ended with him calling me a communist.
Someone (presumably mom) found another doctor. He was far away and we got a ten minute appointment late at night. We arrived ahead of time and brace yourselves because this was a clinic from hell.
It was crowded, the walls were peeling, the plastic seating was limited to few. Waiting in line were bodies completely deformed by disease. I saw women with legs that emerged sideways. Men bent over so much they were perpendicular to the ground. Most needed to be assisted by family, who looked sad and tired and carried plastic bags with files, and reports. The word I thought was cripples.
The line was long. We eventually got little over 120 seconds with the doctor, while two patients sat at his desk and a couple more waited against the walls. We didn't even go near him. I passed the file to the patients at his desk and they passed it to him. He looked at my reports for under 10 seconds, wrote a prescrition in another 10, and then he was onto attending the patients at his desk. He didn't speak a word. The file was passed back to us by the other patient. I remember we didn't actually enter the room. I just stood there confused; then I very loudly asked, "Do I have it?"
"Uf. of course you have it." He indicated that we were to buzz off. It was amazing.
Then I moved cities and had to find a new doctor. Let's call him Best in Town, recommended by who's who. In my first consultation he asked me if I wanted to have a baby and I said no. He found out that I smoked cigarettes and wrote smoker with a red pen on my prescription. (Red pen? Who uses a red pen?) Then he underlined it three times, then circled it. A couple of consultations later he wanted me to get on stronger medication: ones that would require disabling my immunity. Ones that would've landed me in dire straits in this pandemic. I remember thinking he must be a terrible parent.
The right rheumatologist would come eventually. And he would be the philosopher and scientist of my dreams.
I've had some bad rheumatologists. After my initial diagnosis by a GP, the first rheumatologist I met was in a fancy hospital in a fancy country. He gave me multivitamins, calcium tablets, and told me that he could surgically burn the nerves in my lower back so I wouldn't feel pain. (This does not work). I had turned 23 the previous week.
The next doctor I met was at a fancy hospital in this country, and he told me that this diagnosis was impossible. Get this: because women simply didn't get this disease. (In fact the male-female ratio is closer to 70:30. In fact poorly gendered data based on poorly gendered medicine is something I will keep coming back to). He asked me if there was a history of it in the family. I said there was not.
Impossible! he said, referring to my diagnosis. I said that it was, in fact, possible. We were both working hard at being polite because his wife and my mom play golf together, but that conversation ended with him calling me a communist.
Someone (presumably mom) found another doctor. He was far away and we got a ten minute appointment late at night. We arrived ahead of time and brace yourselves because this was a clinic from hell.
It was crowded, the walls were peeling, the plastic seating was limited to few. Waiting in line were bodies completely deformed by disease. I saw women with legs that emerged sideways. Men bent over so much they were perpendicular to the ground. Most needed to be assisted by family, who looked sad and tired and carried plastic bags with files, and reports. The word I thought was cripples.
The line was long. We eventually got little over 120 seconds with the doctor, while two patients sat at his desk and a couple more waited against the walls. We didn't even go near him. I passed the file to the patients at his desk and they passed it to him. He looked at my reports for under 10 seconds, wrote a prescrition in another 10, and then he was onto attending the patients at his desk. He didn't speak a word. The file was passed back to us by the other patient. I remember we didn't actually enter the room. I just stood there confused; then I very loudly asked, "Do I have it?"
"Uf. of course you have it." He indicated that we were to buzz off. It was amazing.
Then I moved cities and had to find a new doctor. Let's call him Best in Town, recommended by who's who. In my first consultation he asked me if I wanted to have a baby and I said no. He found out that I smoked cigarettes and wrote smoker with a red pen on my prescription. (Red pen? Who uses a red pen?) Then he underlined it three times, then circled it. A couple of consultations later he wanted me to get on stronger medication: ones that would require disabling my immunity. Ones that would've landed me in dire straits in this pandemic. I remember thinking he must be a terrible parent.
The right rheumatologist would come eventually. And he would be the philosopher and scientist of my dreams.
Hey, so my friend's father is a philosopher cum scientist rheumatologist if you are still looking. After reading this I understand why his eccentricity makes sense! Let me know, he works out of Delhi.
ReplyDeleteI'm always happy to talk to more scientists, philosophers and rheumatologists! Please do connect and thank you!
DeleteThis blog is very helpful and informative for this particular topic. I appreciate your effort that has been taken to write this blog for us.
ReplyDeletebest treatment for joint inflammation