(I was diagnosed with a general anxiety disorder and panic disorder at nineteen, and have been on anti-anxiety medications since. Sometimes, they stop being as effective, or the side effects become worse, and I need to return to a doctor to change my prescription. This was never an issue before, as my dosage is low and I don’t require strong or addictive medication. However, after moving, I go to see a new doctor. The clinic has gotten all my medical records from my previous one, and I have filled out the forms, detailing my conditions. The doctor is a general practitioner, is male and middle-aged, and immediately seems to be only paying half-attention. I am a twenty-five-year-old female.)

Doctor: “Now, why is someone like you on anxiety medication?”

Me: *confused* “Because I have an anxiety and panic disorder. I was diagnosed years ago, as it says in my file.”

Doctor: “Have you ever tried losing weight?”

Me: “Uh, yes. I’ve been on diets since I was five. I do eat healthily and I walk a mile almost daily–“

Doctor: “And you’re not working.”

Me: *having no idea what this has to do with anything* “No, not yet. I just moved states with my family.”

Doctor: “So, you plan on working? Or are you going to school?”

(I have absolutely no idea where this conversation is going, or why he’s suddenly asking about my life. In the back of my head, I’m hoping he’s trying to figure out what medication to put me on if I’m entering a more stressful situation.)

Me: “No, I’m not planning on going to college, and I’ve started looking for a job–“

Doctor: *cutting me off in a grandfatherly, scolding tone* “Now, why aren’t you planning on going to college? There are lots of good colleges around here.” *starts naming off colleges*

(I am getting increasingly embarrassed and flustered. I attended one year of community college, but my health had taken such a terrible turn from the constant stress and panic attacks I nearly ended up in the hospital. I didn’t continue.)

Me: “I’m… not really interested in going back to college, sir. Can we get back to my–“

Doctor: *dismissively* “Now, now, I’ve got a granddaughter your age; I know what I’m talking about. You don’t need more pills. What you need is to get your degree, lose weight, and find a good man to marry. You’re anxious because your life isn’t heading anywhere! I’ll put you on [medication] for now, but when you come back, I expect you to be enrolled somewhere, you hear?” *winking at me* “Doctor’s orders.”

(I was so bewildered and humiliated I just wanted to get out of the office. I took my prescription and never returned to his office again. I’ve had doctors be unprofessional before, but I’ve never had one lecture me on how going to college would magically cure my mental illness!)

I am extremely susceptible to fungal infections like ringworm. It’s not a real problem, for the most part, just an unsightly nuisance. I had a mark on my arm that I knew from experience was a fungal infection, but the OTC drugs don’t work well on me, so while I was visiting a new doctor about an unrelated issue I asked her about getting a prescription for it. The doctor asked me why I needed it, so I showed her the mark on my arm and explained my history with these kinds of infections.

The doctor immediately got extremely snotty and annoyed with me. She said that I wasn’t a doctor — which is true — and that whatever that mark was, it was not a fungal infection, and that it could be very serious. She said I should tell her about any worrisome marks and then let her do her job — determining what they are and making decisions about my care — without making guesses about what the problem is. She announced that she was going to look at a sample of the mark to determine what it was and what needed to be done, took a skin scraping, and flounced out of the room.

Five minutes later she was back. She wouldn’t look me in the eye while she told me it was a fungal infection, handed me a script, and then marched out.

(I am coming in for a routine checkup with my GP. I am female and he is going through all the questions. Then, we get to the contraceptive part.)

Doctor: “Are you on birth control?”

Me: “No, I don’t react well to it.”

Doctor: “So, what do you use for protection?”

Me: “Condoms.”

Doctor: “Condoms are fine and all, but not 100% effective. You should really also be on birth control pills.”

Me: “Well, I tried taking the lowest dose offered, but I gained a ton of weight and was always throwing up while I was on it. I don’t react well to it and prefer not to take it. Condoms work just fine.”

Doctor: “Just using condoms is like playing Russian Roulette! It does not protect you 100%!”

Me: *thinking to myself that the “pullout method” was more akin to “Russian Roulette* “Well, again, I get really sick when I’ve taken it in the past, so I really don’t want it.”

(He went on for about five minutes more on how I was being “risky.” I couldn’t help but feel he was being a “pill pusher” and not listening to what I was saying. At that point, I was 26 and married with a steady job, so if I did accidentally become pregnant it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. Every time I went in after that, he was always pushing birth control. I think I need a new GP.)

I’m the dumb patient here.

I had just received a cortisone shot for hip pain and the nurse was giving me post-op instructions, one of which was no soaking baths for three days. I said that I was driving to Chicago the next day and was disappointed that I couldn’t use the hotel hot tub, but then I said, “Well, that’s okay; I’ll just swim extra laps.”

The nurse gave me an odd look and reminded me that the instructions also meant “no swimming.”

Related:
H2-D’oh!, Part 5
H2-D’oh!, Part 4
H2-D’oh!, Part 3

(It is currently the beginning of April and this patient needs an appointment.)

Me: “Our next available is mid-June.”

Patient: “Okay, go ahead and schedule me for next Thursday.”

Me: “Our next available is mid-June.”

Patient: “I can’t schedule now; just schedule me for next Thursday.”

Me: “If you can’t schedule right now, that’s fine, but we are booking out until mid-June.”

Patient: “Okay, I’ll call back and schedule for next Thursday.”