Do tell your physician how you’d like to be addressed: “Bob,” “Robert,” or “Mr. Holcombe.”
Do ask if it’s okay to call your physician by her first name, if you’re more comfortable with that. Most physicians won’t mind–they may even prefer it.
Do expect that your doctor may ask you how you like to be called, especially if you’re going to be a long-term patient that she’ll be seeing–and addressing–many times.
Don’t call your doctor just “doc.“ (That sounds like something that belongs in a cartoon!)
The White Glove Patient
Mrs. Lucinda Cray had seen a lot of changes in her 71 years of living, and she herself had changed a lot, but one thing she wasn’t about to give up was wearing her white gloves when out in public. She was aware that people thought it looked snobbish and peculiar, but she wasn’t a snob–it was just that all those naked, sweaty hands embracing each other in the social ritual of handshaking seemed to her to be highly uncivilized. Besides, she hated looking down at all those liver spots on the back of her hands. Thank goodness she didn’t have to look at her own face except when she was putting on her make-up in the morning. If she looked even half as old as her best friend of 50 years, Mayvis Johnson, she’d rather not be reminded of it.
She had dozens of pairs of gloves, and it amazed her how frequently she had to change them. No matter how careful she was, they never stayed clean more than a day. It was such a dirty world. Now here she was in Dr. Todd Peterson’s office with time on her hands, and dust on her fingers. While waiting for him to come in and give her a refill for her thyroid medicine, she’d run her right index finger along the back of her chair and come away with the tip covered in gray fuzz.
“Don’t you ever clean in here?” she asked abruptly as her doctor entered the room, wagging her incriminatingly dusty finger at him.
Dr. Peterson’s cheeks flushed red. “Well, yes, of course. I mean, the office staff cleans the rooms after every patient, and then more thoroughly as needed.”
“I’d say it needs it now,” she declared. “You’d think a doctor’s office, of all places, would be clean.”
If you look hard enough, dust and germs are everywhere in the environment, including your doctor’s office. Unless you happen to be allergic to dust, it’s not a health hazard, and there’s no cause for alarm if you see some in the office. Blood and bodily secretions, however, are another matter; there are strict guidelines that must be followed for dealing with those. When it comes to surgical procedures, materials and equipment should be not only clean but also sterile. In reality, you and your physician, not the physical environment, are the greatest biohazards in the office. So not only will your physician wash his hands before and/or after his encounter with you, but so should you. And save the white gloves for the opera.
Do expect your physician’s office to be tidy, but not spotless.
Do expect surgical supplies and equipment to be sterilized.
Don’t handle something that looks like it may be contaminated with bodily fluids, but do let the physician or office staff know about it.
Do wash your hands after you leave the office, to reduce the chance of picking up or transmitting an infection.
Patients Who Don’t Like Doctors
Dick Stein looked like he was seeing a ghost rather than his new physician. As the white-clad image of Dr. Lionel Hemingway appeared before his eyes, Mr. Stein turned pale, and drops of sweat gathered at his brow.
As he took Dick’s clammy hand in greeting, the physician said, “I’d ask you how you’re feeling, but it’s obvious you’re not feeling very well today.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” he replied. “I’m just here for a refill on my nasal spray. But I don’t like doctors, and I don’t like needles.”
“Well, I’m glad you don’t like needles, but I hope you’ll eventually look on me as your ally.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Dr. Hemingway flashed a forced smile. “Let’s just go ahead and get you your refill and you can be on your way.”
They were both in such a hurry to see the last of one another that Mr. Stein failed to mention the abdominal pains he’d been having lately while playing tennis, and Dr. Hemingway certainly didn’t encourage further communication. Two weeks later, when Mr. Stein was hospitalized with a dissecting abdominal aneurysm, he found out he not only didn’t like doctors— he didn’t like surgery or hospitals either.
Most people don’t like to go to the doctor’s office, and those who actually do like it are not only in the minority but may have a problem: hypochondriasis. No one likes pain (needles), expense (X-rays), wasted time (the waiting room), and most of all, fear–the fear that something is really wrong with you. Previous unhappy experiences in the office or hospital often increase your anxiety and sense of dread and become a self-fulfilling prophecy that the visit will be something you “don’t like.”
A cheerfully appointed waiting room, a friendly staff, and a physician with a likeable and soothing manner go a long way towards making the encounter as pleasant as possible. We physicians know there are other places you’d rather be–we just don’t want to hear about it.
Do remember that doctors don’t like your disease either; they like helping you get better.
Don’t tell you doctor that you “don’t like doctors”; if you’ve had bad experiences in the past, try not to generalize.
Do focus your negative feelings on your illness rather than those who are trying to help you.
Do remember that just as you’d rather be elsewhere than a doctor’s office, so would your physician rather be “gone fishing” (or golfing, or gardening, or sailing).
The Self-Destructing Patient
“I’ve got one whopping case of heartburn, doc,” said Jasper Maycomb as he leaned forward on the examining table.
“Are you drinking again, Jasper?” asked Dr. Laura Bradbury, his physician, who had followed his successes and relapses with various drug rehab programs for the past twenty years.
“Not for the last two days. It feels like my stomach’s on fire if I drink anything, even beer. I need some of that acid-blocking medication you gave me a few months ago.”
“So you can get better, or so you can resume drinking?” Her patient’s hesitation gave her the answer. “I don’t want to prescribe the medication unless you agree to enter rehab again,” she told him.
“I promise,” he said, holding up his right hand, Boy Scout-style. “That last program at Mt. Cedars was pretty good. They said I could just call them if I ever needed more help.”
“Okay. I’ll put you back on the medication, but I’ll need to see you again next week.”
She