I’m not saying I’m champion of MDs or anything. Some of them…a lot of them…a real asshats. Especially if you don’t know them really well, like a doctor that might see you in the ER and is not your regular doc. In my experience, they hate being told anything. Obviously, if you are seen for a condition– say, migraines, in my case– you inevitably pick up some info along the way. Now that almost anyone can access the internet in some way or another, many of us research our conditions. I understand doctors go through extensive schooling and internships to become proficient at their career…but that doesn’t mean every patient that walks into their exam room is a mindless moron with no clue about their own body or condition.
That aside, unless you are a complete moron, you will likely rely on a doctor to save your life, at least once in your life. Even if you don’t have any chronic health issues. (Have you ever considered how many little health issues would soon become life threatening, or at the very least, unbearably uncomfortable, if there wasn’t that small but necessary fix? A dose of penicillin or a few stitches in the right spot.)
Anyway, a long time by and by, I had a therapist who was a little…unconventional. Okay, he was weird. He kept an “office” in a small building out behind his house, and he allowed his dogs and cats to roam freely in the room during session. That much I was cool with. I love animals, and maybe that’s why he did it–because he knows a lot of his patients might have a favorable reaction to the presence of a dog or cat. (Don’t know how he’d handle a client with allergies, as even without the animals in the room, their fur and dander was probably still all over the room.) What bothered me was the casual way he seemed not to notice when the cat stretched up to knead at his crotch.
That, and him asking me about my sex life. Maybe that’s a normal thing for a therapist to ask about, but I was only nineteen or twenty at the time, and it seemed like that was a topic I* should bring up (if I wanted to discuss it), not him.
Anyway, I had one of his business cards in my wallet, and my (douche canoe ex) boyfriend at the time told me the pic on the card made my doc look like a child molester. I kinda blew up. It pissed me off. I was like “Don’t say that! I* have to go see this guy for therapy!” Maybe it bothered me so much because I was already uncomfortable with the guy.
**“What does a child molester look like?” you may ask.
Just kidding, Michael…
Anyhoo… I do have one doc I really like. Ironically, it’s my OB/GYN. She’s cool. It was kind of lucky I met her, since we had just moved out here and I only picked her out of the available docs by chance. She’s about my age. She listens to me, trusts and respects my opinion. She’s funny. Hubby likes her as well (of course he’s met her numerous times; she did deliver our daughter.)
I got a sealed envelope from their office in the mail the other day. Hubby happened to notice the name of the office on the outside and immediately started taking the piss out of me. “Is that from your vag doctor?”
And then… oh, dear God, hubby, I know you didn’t just refer to my OB/GYN as “Dr. Scratch & Sniff!”
This is my life. ~sigh~