She gave in. “Okay. It’s your money, or at least your insurer’s money,” she said, as she walked away feeling like one of his employees.
America is a society in which all of us are equal but everybody wants special treatment. Likewise, American medicine ostensibly tries to treat everyone the same based on their medical condition and not their pocketbooks–but fails. Even in countries like Britain which have socialized medicine, the rich are still able to purchase additional, specialized care.
When I was in training, there was even a special floor of the hospital where the well-heeled sick could recuperate with the aid of not only the nursing staff, but their own gourmet chef as well. Even though they paid extra for their privileges, this still seemed a little unfair to the rest of the patients who had to choke down their daily ration of broth and gelatin.
Rich people can be good patients, and there certainly are some doctors who cater to them: you can charge them more and expect to be paid. But there are limits to what your physician can do, no matter how much money you throw at her. Disease and death can only be bribed, not bought off altogether.
Do realize that a champagne-and-caviar lifestyle may be a sign of privilege, but not of good health.
Don’t expect that your treatment will necessarily be any different than anyone else’s with the same condition, regardless of income.
Do realize that money can’t buy happiness, love, or good health.
The Violent Patient
Dr. Dean Reitermann knew Martin Folsom was angry even before the patient began speaking: his uncombed morning hair stood out in mean porcupine-like spikes, his jaw was clenched with muscles that were visibly kneading across the bones, and his icy blue eyes glowered from behind glasses that sat slightly askew on his nose. With an optimistic smile, Dr. Reitermann extended his hand in a cheery greeting: “How are you today, Mr. Folsom? Nice to see you.”
“Humph,” he snorted. “Why don’t you stop this damn buzzing in my ear? Then it’ll be nice to see you.”
Dr. Reitermann began to wonder if he should ask Lynn, his office nurse, to come into the room. But being 6’ 2” and 200 pounds and having a black belt in karate made him confident that he need not be afraid of his slender young patient. “Let me take a look at you, then,” the doctor said, and began to peer with his otoscope into Martin’s left ear.
“What are you doing?” shouted Martin as he grabbed the physician’s arm and pushed it away. “You’re trying to plant some kind of radio in my head, aren’t you?”
Dr. Reitermann glanced down at Martin’s chart and now was reminded that the young man suffered from paranoid schizophrenia and was under the care of a psychiatrist. “Martin, have you been taking the medication that Dr. Carver prescribes for you?”
“Medication, medication, medication, medication,” he chanted. “You and him are trying to poison me.”
“No, of course not, we…”
But before the physician could finish his response, Martin snatched the chart from his hand and began ripping it up. “I’m destroying your plan!” he shouted.
Martin threw the shredded document into the doctor’s face. “Stay away from me!” Martin yelled as he reached out his arm and with one sweep knocked the canisters off the equipment tray.
Shards of glass, wooden tongue blades, and cotton balls now littered the floor, and the noise of the crash brought Lynn into the room. “What’s going on in here?” she asked as Martin ran past her.
“Nothing a little haloperidol won’t fix,” replied the shaken physician. A call to the patient’s psychiatrist soon resulted in Martin’s commitment to a hospital, until he was back on his medication and no longer a threat to others.
Violence in the workplace, while itself not common, is becoming a common source of anxiety among workers. Widely publicized incidents like an ex-postal employee who kills his former boss with an automatic weapon have made us all fearful for our own safety. A worker angry about being laid off, a customer spewing epithets over a defective product, or a colleague upset over a perceived insult can all trigger this fear.
Physicians and their staffs sometimes encounter verbal abuse from distraught patients, which can occasionally escalate into physical violence. In particular, physicians and clinic employees who perform abortions are terrified of this possibility. Regardless of one’s stand on abortion, one has to condemn such violence. And just remember, if you should happen to have an altercation with your physician, he knows where your vital organs are located and how to get to them!
Do remember that violence is not justified no matter how upset you are.
Do discuss your feelings with your physician if you’re upset about something.
Don’t be surprised if your doctor dismisses you as a patient if you’ve been verbally or physically abusive in the office.
Do talk with a counselor or pastor if you continue to be angry with your doctor and his staff, rather than resort to violence. And, as a last resort, talk with your lawyer; while doctors hate to be sued, we’d rather be sued than shot.
The Name-Caller
Sheila Burnett was in a good mood. After a hectic summer, her kids were back in school, and she’d scheduled an all-afternoon spa treatment to pamper herself. All she had to do this morning was to get her annual Pap smear out of the way and then she’d be able to relax the rest of the day. A Ph. D. in chemistry who’d given up her career to focus on raising her three children, she decided she needed to focus on herself for a change. She’d found out that being a mother and a homemaker was sometimes delightful, sometimes maddening, and always challenging. Certainly she had as much respect now for all those other stay-at-home moms as she did for those charging ahead in the workplace. Her own degree didn’t impress her as much as it used to, though it came in handy now and then when trying to figure out the reason for a culinary disaster or what cleaner to use on the bathtub scum.
The new physician she was meeting today was a woman about her own age (42), and she reminded Sheila of what path her life might have taken if she had stuck to pre-med in college instead of chemistry. “Good morning, Mrs. Burnett,” said the physician. “I’m Dr. Kathy Isaacs. Nice to meet you.”
“Hi, Kathy. It’s nice to meet you, too. You don’t mind if I call you ‘Kathy,’ do you?”
“No, not if you’re more comfortable with that. You can call me Kathy, or you can call me Dr. Isaacs, just don’t call me at two in the morning.”
Sheila laughed and said, “Okay, and please drop the ‘Mrs. Burnett’–it makes me sound too much like my mother-in-law. Considering my Ph.D., I suppose I could be ‘Dr.’ Burnett, but that’s a bit pretentious.”
“It’s a deal,” said Kathy, and the two women shook on it.
Names are a very important part of our identity. Even when burdened with a name like Eugene Periwinkle Borer, or tagged with the moniker of a long-deceased relative, we usually make peace with our own name, and even come to like it–because it’s our name, it’s part of us. For this book, I had thought to assume the nom de plume of B.G. Cole, but when it came time to actually see my name in print, I went with “Brad”—a likeable contraction of the stiff “Bradford”—but kept the “Colegate.” “Cole” seemed like chopping a limb off the family tree.
We all have a right to be addressed as we wish, but sometimes communicating that wish can be difficult. Any “Charles” who is unwillingly reduced to “Chuck” can attest to that. For some, it’s such an emotionally