Why this is difficult

It doesn’t matter if it’s true* or not; she thinks I’ve saved her life twice. When she came in for her followup visit yesterday, she gave me this watercolor, which she had painted for me.

It’s a blue poison dart frog, Dendrobates azureus, one of the species we keep in the waiting room.

Okay. So she has known me forever, remembers Karen and asks about her, has met Jake and asks about him, too. She knows about Karen’s MS and her sacroiliac problems. She could tell something was wrong by my reaction to the painting, so when she told me “out with it” (or something like that) I suspect she thought we were having more health trouble at home. I felt I owed her more than a letter, for heaven’s sake. I had to ‘fess up about our upcoming departure.

She cried. Then she regained her composure, and then she cried again.

D.

*I have a high threshold for this “you saved my life” thing. If I swing the scalpel and suddenly you’re breathing again, I’ve saved your life. Otherwise, I’m doing my job. (Not that I’m not doing my job when I swing that scalpel, but — oh, forget it.)

Too much information

One of the problems with being a doctor is, folks think they can tell (or show) you anything. Anything.

I’ve lost count of the number of patients who have bared their breasts, dropped their pants, or lifted their shirts to show me one thing or another. I’m very polite when this happens. I never say, “What part of ear, nose, and throat don’t you understand?” Like the hero of my romance novel, I was once the recipient of a snide, “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” and I don’t care to hear that phrase in that tone of voice ever again.

Nevertheless, a few patients have crossed the line. The worst was a woman with a medical condition characterized by freckled lips. She thought her entire digestive tract was full of freckles, and that her poops were freckled, too. And she had the photo album to prove it.

One patient would bring in her used Kleenexes to show to her doctors. Now, 999,999 times out of a million, such displays are TMI. C’mon, it’s not that tough, it’s like the opposite of writing fiction: you can tell me your phlegm is thick and green, you don’t have to show me. “I thought you might be able to use the sample!” they say.

Um, no.

But in this one time in a million, those used Kleenexes helped me make a diagnosis (maybe). She told her doctors she was coughing up crystals, and none would believe her, even if she showed them the proof. Miracle of miracles, I remembered something from med school: Charcot-Leyden crystals, a sign of asthma. To this day, I don’t know if those really were Charcot-Leyden crystals, but I sent her to a pulmonologist, and IIRC, he figured it out.

I’m not the pointiest fork in the drawer, but I do know it’s abnormal to cough up pretty crystals. (On the other hand, I must be a relatively pointy fork, since I was the first doc to take her seriously and send her to a specialist.)

What bugs me the most is when friends or family members tell me stuff that’s (A) way too personal, and (B) way too far from my specialty for me to offer any sort of intelligent commentary. (Sis, don’t worry. I don’t think you’ve ever done this.) I’m not a gynecologist, nor am I a proctologist.

And then there’s the personal stuff. I’ve told you this before — the bizarre habit women have of opening up to me. I suspect it’s the Little Bald Hobbit phenomenon. I’m like a human teddy bear. You can tell anything to your teddy bear, right? It’s not like anyone ever made a teddy bear horror movie —

Oh. I stand corrected.

***

Brownie points to anyone who can suggest an EASY Thirteen for tomorrow.

D.