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I Love my Doctor

  • Posted on September 22, 2011 at 6:16 pm

Like most of us, I have a love-hate relationship with my doctor, well more of a like-dislike relationship. She’s a kind, caring woman with a good sense of humor and a real concern for her patients.

I like her when she tells me my weight, blood pressure and cholesterol numbers are good.

I don’t like her so much when she tells me to undress and put on a paper gown and the room temperature is about 55 degrees. The like-scale goes down even more when she tells the nurse to take various measurements that involve encasing my upper arm in a vice-grip, otherwise known as a blood pressure cuff, or to take blood samples by finger pricks or drawing larger amounts with a needle.
I like my doctor even less when she hands me a cup and tells me to go fill it. The disconcerting gymnastics involved are exacerbated by a nurse standing outside the door calling, “Just relax and let it flow.”

When she tells me to go to the imaging center and get a test innocently called a mammogram, I actively despise my physician. This involves standing in an even colder room partially covered with a tissue thin cotton gown and exposing body parts, one at a time, to be lifted, shifted and shaped to fit a plastic vise that flattens each body part to the thickness of a pancake. Standing on tiptoe and holding my breath while said squashing takes place adds to the discomfort. The rating on my like-dislike scale takes another plunge when the radiologist cheerfully chirps, “Let’s do that one again. It was a little blurry.”

Occasionally, my doctor kindly reminds me it’s time to go for a colonoscopy. I’ll not go into detail here. Suffice it to say, I’m still having nightmares from the last one.

However, a day comes when all this dislike turns to love. This happened recently when I told my doctor that I was beginning to grow old-lady toe nails and could no longer clip them easily. I said I was going to have to go buy a pair of those clippers that look like wire snips. After a quick check to assure the nails were fungus free, she smiled and said, “Get a pedicure. They’ll cut your nails for you.” My worried look began to change, at first slightly, then became a full-fledge grin. A pedicure! On doctor’s orders!

Saturday evening a friend drove me to a local nail salon where a young woman asked me to sit in a massage chair and immersed my feet in warm, bubbling water. After a few minutes of this delight she began to massage my lower legs and feet. Soon she was removing calluses and trimming nails with enthusiasm. She ended by painting my toe nails a shimmering copper color and putting my feet under an ultra violet light to dry the polish. What a treat! Less costly and more fun than a trip to a podiatrist. My doctor is really a wonderful woman! I love her! Oh, my friend? She’s still smiling too.

Now, my question is: How can I persuade my doctor to prescribe a full day-spa treatment?

© by Sharon D. Dillon, September 22, 2011