I am the worst patient. When I see my doctor:
I wear skinny jeans and lace up boots to my lady-check appointment, so she can wait half an hour for me to deal with my hems and eyelets.
I talk while she’s auscultating my chest.
I provide bizarrely extraneous and time consuming detail, like how sick I was when I had glandular fever three years ago, which incidentally started the day before my final verbal exam, and you know what, I had a fever of like 40 degrees while I was doing the “bad news” station, had to tell the patient/actor she had lupus and I was sweating and hallucinating about losing my name badge…
Before getting on the scales, I ask “shoes on or off?” This isn’t a huge deal. It’s just one of those gentle will-grinding things that happen fifteen times a day. We talk about decision fatigue. These are fifteen decisions she shouldn’t have to make, sob. She’s just after a ball-park figure here. Leave em on, take em off, whatever. Now she’s got nothing left to decide whether I need a colonoscopy or not.
I ask her to describe to me where the nearest pharmacy is, because she trained for ten years to explain street landmarks, and didn’t employ a receptionist to do that for her.
Most of my issues are lifestyle related, like having a job that is stressful, emotionally draining and sedentary and features a tea room in which people keep leaving cake. I need her to fix all that for me.
I always sigh with remorse when I walk out. I really hope she has a good GP.