Previously, I wrote about my experience with the Old Doctor.
The one who listened. Who remembered. Who somehow knew what I was about to say before I had found the courage to say it.
Little did I know that, just weeks after writing about him, I would have an experience that would make me think about him again. For entirely different reasons.
I recently underwent a gynaecological procedure. Nothing I particularly wished to add to my calendar, but life has a rather annoying habit of making appointments on our behalf.
My gynaecologist is an older, experienced doctor. A woman, which is relevant to this story. Someone who has probably seen thousands of women throughout her career.
I suppose I expected something of that old-fashioned medicine I had written about so fondly.
Instead, I found myself sitting across from a computer screen.
My doctor was there, of course. Physically, at least.
I had questions. She had a schedule.
I tried to explain my concerns, but I was interrupted several times.
At one point, she said something that has stayed with me:
“Vamos lá, tenho mais pacientes para ver.”
Come on, I have other patients to see.
I know. Of course she does.
I wasn't under the impression that I was her only patient. Nor was I expecting afternoon tea, a comfortable sofa, or a lengthy discussion about the meaning of life.
I simply wanted to finish a sentence.
And perhaps have someone look at me while I was saying it.
The procedure went ahead, although I still had questions.
I went home.
And nobody called.
Not the following day. Not a few days later.
Nobody asking whether I was recovering well, whether I had any concerns, or whether I understood what to expect.
Perhaps everything was perfectly fine from a clinical perspective.
But I couldn't help wondering when we decided that a medical procedure ends the moment the patient leaves the hospital.
Because, for the patient, it doesn't.
You take the experience home with you. Along with the discharge papers, the instructions, some pain and discomfort, and sometimes a collection of questions you didn't even know you had until you were back in your own living room.
And that's when I thought about my old doctor again.
Maybe what I miss isn't old medicine.
Maybe what I miss is the feeling that someone was still thinking about me after I had walked out of the room.
When did we start confusing the completion of a medical act with the completion of care?
For the past 12 years of my professional career, I have worked alongside medical professionals.
I am not one of them. I simply work among them.
And perhaps that allows me to observe things from a different angle. Not through the eyes of a clinician, but through those of a human being. And, occasionally, a patient.
I have met extraordinary doctors. People whose dedication, intelligence and humanity I deeply admire.
But I have also witnessed how routine can change people. How years of seeing the same conditions, hearing the same concerns and performing the same procedures can sometimes make them frighteningly indifferent.
Almost heartless.
I understand that what is frightening to a patient may be just another ordinary Tuesday for a doctor.
But that's precisely the problem.
What is routine for you may be entirely new, frightening and deeply personal to me.
And dismissing someone's pain or diminishing their fears doesn't make a doctor more important, or more God-like.
It simply makes them less human.
And what particularly bothered me about this experience was that my doctor was a woman.
Perhaps unfairly, I expected a little more understanding. A little more compassion.
Some recognition of the insecurities that come with being a woman, sitting in a gynaecologist’s office, discussing something so intimate.
Of course, being a woman doesn't automatically make someone more compassionate. I know that.
But somehow, I had hoped she would understand.
Instead, I felt no closeness. No particular interest in my fears. Just the urgency of getting to the next patient.
I wasn't expecting special treatment.
