Doctors and Death Panels

I’m trying to fire my doctor of five-plus years. It’s turning out to be a little more difficult than I anticipated. I thought I could just call up a new one and make an appointment. No problem.

Wrong.

First of all, why am I firing my doctor? A few reasons. One: I told him I’m back at work after my back fracture and subsequent surgery but that I’m still having pain. His answer was, “How much longer are you planning on working?” Translation: “You’re an old, damaged hag and you should get out of the work force.”

Two: I told him the Tramadol and Robaxin I’m taking when I’m really, really in pain don’t work all that well. (I threw away my hydrocodone because I didn’t want to end up in drug rehab.) His answer: “How much are you taking daily?” Translation: “You’re probably dependent on them even though they’re non-narcotic.”

Three: He asked me, “How much longer are you planning on working?” Translation: See Number one. I told him a year or two. His answer: “If you continue working with pain the pain may become chronic.” Duh. I think it’s already chronic. See Number one translation. I think he really wanted to ask me how much longer I’m planning on living. The bottom line is he’s cold, unfeeling, plastic, and doesn’t seem to give a hoot about what he’s doing. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m not seeing a lot of compassion. Of course, he’s not seeing a lot of years left where I’m concerned. Or he might have been reading some of Ezekiel Emanuel’s famous quotes.

So a friend of mine recommended her doctor, who she says is very good, takes the time to listen, and happens to be a woman. I called this morning to make an appointment. The receptionist took all my personal information and then said, “So you want to see her because you have pain?” Translation: “You’re drug-seeking?” First of all, I didn’t know you had to apply to become a patient. I kind of thought it was the other way around. Aren’t we paying them?

As far as pain management, what ever happened to physical therapy? It seems to me that there must be something out there that doesn’t come down to quit work and sit home and join the rutabaga family. Maybe these people are gearing up for socialized medicine’s Death Panels. It’s always nice to have a leg up on something new. They’re certainly getting practice asking the end-of-lifequestions.

The irony in this is I work in a nursing home. Someday soon I’ll just climb into one of their beds and ask for a pain pill. I may just get it. Might even get some physical therapy, too.

Love

Granny