If I asked my doctor THAT he’d probably say, “Well, seems like your fever, again. Blood pressure seems normal, though...” Sigh!
You know how we all, always, complain about the illegibility of various physicians’ handwritings? Yeah, well, indecipherable writing isn’t the only thing that’s plaguing our medical professionals. Along with, Handwriting 101, there is a desperate need to introduce a refresher course on “Subtlety, Soft Skills and Sense of Humour” in the syllabus of medical courses.
Why? I’ll tell you, why!
Case in point: My X-ray reports that showed nothing out-of-the-ordinary, except for this one glaring statement that claimed “Subject’s lungs are unremarkable.”
UNREMARKABLE? Really, now?! They could’ve said “Subject’s lungs function perfectly well”, or “Subject has normal lungs that do what they should do just fine”. Instead, they call my diligent, well-performing lungs, UNREMARKABLE. The thoughtlessness of it all!
And, what does it take for lungs to be deemed “remarkable” by the medicine people, anyway? Will pumping out oxygen to the rhythm of ‘Why This Kolaveri Di” do the trick?
As if it wasn’t good enough that my lungs, despite not having any visible medical defects, was qualified as unexceptional, my doctor, rather unkindly informs me that I have “small veins”! Did you even know there was an optimal size defined for blood carrying vessels? Well, I didn’t. You can just blame it on the education system (or, maybe, I was absent the day they taught this in science class). So, anyway, after the doctor had pronounced my veins “small” and nonchalantly walked off, I began my outrage:
“Small veins? SMALL veins? Small VEINS? What does that even mean? SMALL VEINS? And, how could he just say it quite like that and walk away without so much as a thought to my feelings? For people who are supposed to be life-savers, doctors can be so heartless.” (I’m not usually so dramatic. Getting overly emotional was one of the side-effects of the medicines I was taking at the time. Really.) “He could’ve just said I have delicate veins,” I suggested.
Mom who was glued to the newspaper and only half listening to her unwell daughter pointed out, “Delicate implies that you have normal-sized veins that are err... umm... fragile.” Whose side is she on, anyway?!
“Fine, petite, our-injections-are-too-big-for-your-fine-blood-vessels,” I continued brainstorming.
“The needles of injections are uniformly sized – there’s no such thing as a big injection,” came the wise interjection. Again, pick a side, MOM!
Weak me grumpily grumbled, “No such thing as BIG INJECTIONS, but I can have SMALL VEINS. HMPF!”
Mom, finally looked up from the paper, and kindly suggested, “How about this: Your veins are too fine for the standard-sized needles?” Hmm, that could work. Mommy could even deliver that S3 refresher course, maybe!
Well, to be slightly fair (I have recently stopped taking those pills that make me over-sensitive, so now I can be fair to people...), all that medical jargon crammed into their brains must hardly leave any space for Standard English words. Like, take for instance the cute intern who came to check-up on me (or maybe he was curious about the small-veined girl. Maybe, there aren’t too many of us. Maybe, I’m a relic for these intern types). He cutely stood there, rocking back and forth on his heels in a most un-doctor-like-manner, as the nurse checked my temperature. 102 degrees, she blandly informed McCutie. (My fever had learnt NOTHING from Sachin Tendulkar!)
And, then he knowingly nodded and muttered, “Yes, every bacterial infection has its own unique manifestation.” And, in my medicine-muddled-mind all I could think is “Wow. Sigh.” It was only after the effects of the mind-dulling tablets had worn off that I realised all he was trying to say is, “Dudette, I haz no idea why your fever won’t go away, yo!”
And, in another shining example of how doctors and their patients clearly speak different languages though it all sounds like English, is the time I tried to joke with my doctor about my illness-induced-weight-loss. Always the optimistic one, I proudly told my doctor, “Well, Doctor, I seem to have lost 5 kgs!”
Without looking up and while still scribbling in his only-slightly-legible-scrawl, he said, “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll gain it back. If your weight has been around one area for a while, it will tend to go back up.”
Mind screamed, “Whaaaaa... is he implying that I was fat?!” Face assumed calmness, though a nervous giggle escaped and I quickly replied, “Oh no, Doctor! I’d rather not gain back the weight I lost. Instead, I’d rather lose some more! I mean, I wouldn’t want a relapse or anything. But I could shed a few more kilos. Hehe...”
Doc looked at me with seriousness in his deep-doctor-eyes and said, “A relapse has nothing to do with weight loss,” and he proceeded to give me a lecture on regular exercise and maintaining a healthy diet. Too late to add, “LOL, just kidding, doc!” right!
Anyway, after the lecture on merits of eating “only home-cooked food for the next one month” had ended, it spiraled into a sermon on the merits of “resting well”. I took this as my cue to enquire about when it would be a good time for me to return to my 10-hour-work + 3-hour-daily-commute schedule. I diplomatically ventured, “So, Doctor, how many days of rest do you think I need before I can get back on my feet?!” (See, what I did there. Real smooth. Something my doctor could learn from me. The art of subtlety. Yes.)
Automatic response: “10 days at least.” A pause. Close peering over doctor-glasses happens. Then, “You’re in college, right?”
I blush. I giggle. I respond. “Err. No, Doctor. I’m a working professional.”
Back to scribbling, automatic response: “Oh, ok, in that case 7-8 days rest!”
Well, there’s no rant here. I’m just flattered he thought I was still in college and that makes up for the tactless “small veins” remark. Good save, doc, good save!
You know how we all, always, complain about the illegibility of various physicians’ handwritings? Yeah, well, indecipherable writing isn’t the only thing that’s plaguing our medical professionals. Along with, Handwriting 101, there is a desperate need to introduce a refresher course on “Subtlety, Soft Skills and Sense of Humour” in the syllabus of medical courses.
Why? I’ll tell you, why!
Case in point: My X-ray reports that showed nothing out-of-the-ordinary, except for this one glaring statement that claimed “Subject’s lungs are unremarkable.”
UNREMARKABLE? Really, now?! They could’ve said “Subject’s lungs function perfectly well”, or “Subject has normal lungs that do what they should do just fine”. Instead, they call my diligent, well-performing lungs, UNREMARKABLE. The thoughtlessness of it all!
And, what does it take for lungs to be deemed “remarkable” by the medicine people, anyway? Will pumping out oxygen to the rhythm of ‘Why This Kolaveri Di” do the trick?
As if it wasn’t good enough that my lungs, despite not having any visible medical defects, was qualified as unexceptional, my doctor, rather unkindly informs me that I have “small veins”! Did you even know there was an optimal size defined for blood carrying vessels? Well, I didn’t. You can just blame it on the education system (or, maybe, I was absent the day they taught this in science class). So, anyway, after the doctor had pronounced my veins “small” and nonchalantly walked off, I began my outrage:
“Small veins? SMALL veins? Small VEINS? What does that even mean? SMALL VEINS? And, how could he just say it quite like that and walk away without so much as a thought to my feelings? For people who are supposed to be life-savers, doctors can be so heartless.” (I’m not usually so dramatic. Getting overly emotional was one of the side-effects of the medicines I was taking at the time. Really.) “He could’ve just said I have delicate veins,” I suggested.
Mom who was glued to the newspaper and only half listening to her unwell daughter pointed out, “Delicate implies that you have normal-sized veins that are err... umm... fragile.” Whose side is she on, anyway?!
“Fine, petite, our-injections-are-too-big-for-your-fine-blood-vessels,” I continued brainstorming.
“The needles of injections are uniformly sized – there’s no such thing as a big injection,” came the wise interjection. Again, pick a side, MOM!
Weak me grumpily grumbled, “No such thing as BIG INJECTIONS, but I can have SMALL VEINS. HMPF!”
Mom, finally looked up from the paper, and kindly suggested, “How about this: Your veins are too fine for the standard-sized needles?” Hmm, that could work. Mommy could even deliver that S3 refresher course, maybe!
Well, to be slightly fair (I have recently stopped taking those pills that make me over-sensitive, so now I can be fair to people...), all that medical jargon crammed into their brains must hardly leave any space for Standard English words. Like, take for instance the cute intern who came to check-up on me (or maybe he was curious about the small-veined girl. Maybe, there aren’t too many of us. Maybe, I’m a relic for these intern types). He cutely stood there, rocking back and forth on his heels in a most un-doctor-like-manner, as the nurse checked my temperature. 102 degrees, she blandly informed McCutie. (My fever had learnt NOTHING from Sachin Tendulkar!)
And, then he knowingly nodded and muttered, “Yes, every bacterial infection has its own unique manifestation.” And, in my medicine-muddled-mind all I could think is “Wow. Sigh.” It was only after the effects of the mind-dulling tablets had worn off that I realised all he was trying to say is, “Dudette, I haz no idea why your fever won’t go away, yo!”
And, in another shining example of how doctors and their patients clearly speak different languages though it all sounds like English, is the time I tried to joke with my doctor about my illness-induced-weight-loss. Always the optimistic one, I proudly told my doctor, “Well, Doctor, I seem to have lost 5 kgs!”
Without looking up and while still scribbling in his only-slightly-legible-scrawl, he said, “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll gain it back. If your weight has been around one area for a while, it will tend to go back up.”
Mind screamed, “Whaaaaa... is he implying that I was fat?!” Face assumed calmness, though a nervous giggle escaped and I quickly replied, “Oh no, Doctor! I’d rather not gain back the weight I lost. Instead, I’d rather lose some more! I mean, I wouldn’t want a relapse or anything. But I could shed a few more kilos. Hehe...”
Doc looked at me with seriousness in his deep-doctor-eyes and said, “A relapse has nothing to do with weight loss,” and he proceeded to give me a lecture on regular exercise and maintaining a healthy diet. Too late to add, “LOL, just kidding, doc!” right!
Anyway, after the lecture on merits of eating “only home-cooked food for the next one month” had ended, it spiraled into a sermon on the merits of “resting well”. I took this as my cue to enquire about when it would be a good time for me to return to my 10-hour-work + 3-hour-daily-commute schedule. I diplomatically ventured, “So, Doctor, how many days of rest do you think I need before I can get back on my feet?!” (See, what I did there. Real smooth. Something my doctor could learn from me. The art of subtlety. Yes.)
Automatic response: “10 days at least.” A pause. Close peering over doctor-glasses happens. Then, “You’re in college, right?”
I blush. I giggle. I respond. “Err. No, Doctor. I’m a working professional.”
Back to scribbling, automatic response: “Oh, ok, in that case 7-8 days rest!”
Well, there’s no rant here. I’m just flattered he thought I was still in college and that makes up for the tactless “small veins” remark. Good save, doc, good save!
