Great physicians listen to the patient.

I remember this pediatrist my mom would take me and my brother to when we were young. I thought she was the devil (note that I was little and haven’t quite internalized the character of the devil; I think I equated it with a supernatural and conniving being). For example, there was this one moment I remember incredibly vividly: she would ask me to blow my nose into a handkerchief (presumably to see whether my nose was blocked or something). As I was about to blow she would point out that I should blow each nostril separately, otherwise my nose would bleed. Nonsense, I thought to myself (it was too late to actually follow her advice, so I didn’t actually do anything to spite her even though if I had the time I would so I guess I was spiteful), I’ve been blowing my nose both nostrils together for nine years of my life and have never, ever seen blood. Lo and behold, the handkerchief was slightly bloody.

She was not a great physician. She never listened to me. She never cared what I had to say, how I felt. She would always listen to my mom: she would ask her what was wrong with us, listen to her responses and prescribe medicine based on that. We were just black-box biological systems for her.

I think this lack of a connection with the patient made her overestimate our symptoms and, consequently, overdiagnose and overtreat us. I was a sickly child.

This entry was posted on Monday, November 23rd, 2009 at 21:17 and is filed under discovery, for reflection, reductions. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.