I have a great deal of respect for doctors. One of my closest friends, a fellow I’ve known for 25 years, is a doctor and even that hasn’t served to diminish my admiration for medical professionals. You know what I mean, don’t you? Today, your school-friend, Person X, may be a theoretical physicist researching on entropy and anti-matter and whatnot. But you will always remember him as the boy who tried to steal your tiffin-box (congealed Maggi) and then tripped over his own feet, fell face-first and chipped his tooth.
Now, when you see him being profiled by science magazines you cannot help but wonder: if this lunch-stealing imbecile can become a theoretical physicist, then theoretical physics is probably not what it is made out to be? When your childhood friends achieve success in a particular field, it inevitably dulls the aura of that field in your eyes. Not so, with medicine.
The best doctors are magicians; they can work miracles. You go to them in agony and unbearable pain, counting down the minutes until you breathe your last. They poke you in the mid-riff, ask a few questions and declare that you have a bad case of gas. You are incredulous. You tell them that it feels like an alien creature is feeding on your organs and will shortly burst out of your abdomen - perhaps an X-ray will reveal the truth? No, they blithely state, it is gas. They prescribe a few medicines1, you pop the pills and within hours, you are cured!
But occasionally, you come across a practitioner who is, how do I say this politely, eccentric. When you choose to consult such a character, you have to be prepared for anything to happen - except a coherent conversation about your ailments.
Given my advancing years, I am now afflicted by muscle and joint-related issues with alarming frequency. A few days ago I thought it prudent to get a proper diagnosis and determine a clear course of treatment. After some amount of research, I identified one doctor (who shall remain nameless) and made an appointment. So far, so good.
On the appointed date, I arrived at the clinic with my list of maladies and questions. I was ushered into the doctor’s chamber. The first thing I noticed was how young the doctor looked, in his 30s at most. I introduced myself. (Have you ever noticed how doctors never introduce themselves? This is particularly relevant in the context of this story.) I began describing the variety of complaints I had mentally listed and after a few minutes, paused to let him absorb the information. He nodded with a passive expression and asked me to lie down on the clinic bed. Then, he proceeded to move my limbs at odd angles seemingly waiting for me to welp every time, before being satisfied by the range of motion. From the bed, I noticed an old, framed picture of a man receiving a medical degree. Who was this mystery man whose picture was hanging in our doctor’s chamber? A mentor? A parent? I was mulling over this curiosity when he asked me to get up. Nothing serious, he pronounced while scribbling on some scraps of paper. Get an X-ray and these medicines, he said handing me the scraps, and then Sir will see you.
Sir?! Wait, what?
These words remained unsaid as I was ushered out of his chamber. It turns out that I had chosen a doctor who, like the emperors of yore who employed food-tasters, preferred to have his patients vetted by a junior accomplice. No matter, I thought. Perhaps it was better I posed my questions to the Main Doc. I went about getting the X-ray, procuring the medicines, and returned to the chamber.
This time, I was greeted by a boisterous middle-aged man. He of the framed photo on the wall and ostensibly the Main Doc (he didn’t introduce himself). His accomplice was lurking in a corner; scribbling on a pad and ignoring my dark looks. The Main Doc asked me a few preliminary questions and then asked me to hop back onto the clinic bed. What follows below is a transcript of our exchange (edited to redact personal details), as he attacked my limbs:
Doc: “So, what do you do?”
Me: “I am a lawyer.”
Doc: “Aah! My [child] is also a lawyer. [Child] used to work in [name of law firm]. Now [child] is working in [name of different law firm]. [Child] did her LLM from [name of university]. Then [child] did another LLM from [name of another university].”
Me: “Hmm.”
Doc (pressing my foot): “Does this hurt?”
Me (voice quivering, eyes watering): “Yes, very much.”
Doc (pressing harder): “What about this?”
Me: *whimper*
Doc: “Which university did you attend? My [child] went to [name of university]. Let me tell you how [child] got admission….”
At this point, he launched into a long-winded monologue beginning with the admission process for law schools, a brief history of different law schools peppered with his personal opinion of them, the serendipitous circumstances that led to his child securing a seat in a premier law school, and the various achievements of said child during their law school education. Throughout this time, he had been testing my limbs for weaknesses he could exploit. As his monologue concluded, he grasped my knee.
Doc: “Tighten your knee.”
I flexed my knee.
Doc: “ I said, tighten your knee!”
I flexed harder.
Doc (glaring): “What man, you don’t understand or what, tighten it!”
Me: “I don’t know what you mea..”
Doc (dislocating my knee cap): “Does this hurt?”
Me: *whimpers some more*
Doc (putting my knee cap back in place): “Okay time for some injections!”
Me: “Injections?!”
Doc: “Yes! Two injections! You need vitamins!”
Me: “But I don’t want inj…”
Doc (readying the needles): “So, now [child] is….”
Meticulous details about the work timings, compensation and general life of [child] were shared over the next few minutes as I was poked with two needles in quick succession. By now, I knew more about [child]’s life than I do about most of my friends. Conversely, I knew very little, precisely nothing, about my diagnosis.
Me: “So, what exactly is the issue? If you could please explain..”
Doc (turning to his accomplice): “Write these meds down! ABC…” (hands me a strip of pills) “…XYZ…” (hands me another strip) “…EFG"…” (a box is handed over) “…PQM…” (and so on).
I sat on the clinic bed with a pile of medicines in my lap, looking from the Main Doc to his accomplice as they continued conversing apparently oblivious to my presence. I politely waited, thinking I will ask him to explain his diagnosis once he’s finished dictating the prescription.
The prescription was handed over to me. I looked down at it for a few seconds, looked up to ask what all of it meant but it was too late. The Main Doc was nowhere to be seen. I looked at the prescription again. A dozen different pills and not an inkling of what they were intended to cure. I looked up to ask the accomplice. Trained by the best, he too had made a swift exit. The chamber lay bereft - me, the clinic bed and the framed photo on the wall were all that remained.
Dazed and confused, I walked out of the chamber clutching the prescription as the only souvenir of this bizarre interaction.
Of the many strange events that had occurred over the course of the consultation, I was left most impressed by the ability of both doctors to silently disappear in the blink of an eye. Truth be told, it was the neatest vanishing trick I had ever witnessed.
Some doctors, it would seem, are quite literally magicians.
I have to make a reference to the bizarre custom of some Bombay doctors doling out pills in little plastic pouches, instead of writing out a prescription. It’s an interesting albeit unconventional solution to the problem of chemists never being able to understand a doctor’s handwriting.
So much maza and chuckling I had going on while reading this. Like actual bursts of laughter, not just thinking an 'LOL'.. this reminded me of a story David Sedaris narrated of an awkward incident at a French doctor's clinic.. :) he also said he feels bad for those who can't write about such experiences.