The spark has gone out of my current gastroenterologist/patient relationship. He doesn’t return my calls or emails, or even want to spend time with me anymore. We just don’t talk deeply about the really important things in life, you know, like my poo. He’s just not that into me, I guess.
It’s a real shame because he knows his sh*t. Quite literally. The thing is, there’s not much point in having an ace doctor that you never ever get to spend quality time with.
So last week I engaged in a spot of speed doctoring with a potential new doctor. Speed doctoring is kind of like speed dating. But with less dating. Because that is frowned upon.
As with speed dating, first impressions count. His rooms were more swanky than what I’m accustomed to. They had comfortable chairs that weren’t covered in mysterious body fluids. The magazines were in date. The receptionist was young, friendly, and efficient. There was natural light. He ran to time. What kind of parallel universe was this? Oh, that’s right. The kind where you pay almost $300 a visit.
As I waited for his earlier appointment to wrap up I listened to the timbre of voices behind the closed consultation room door. I couldn’t hear the content of the conversation but I could hear a male voice and a female voice. They were getting equal air time. I like to get a word in edgewise when I’m meeting with doctors. Ok, maybe whole paragraphs. Perhaps even a monologue. Or two.
The door opened, and there he was: my doctor for the next thirty minutes, back-lit by winter sunlight streaming through his floor to ceiling windows, a vision in Camper shoes and an Apple Watch.
He was young. Fabulous. He might retire after I’m dead.
He was good looking but not dazzling. Great. His looks won’t distract me from talking about the frequency and texture of my bowel movements.
He was married to a woman. Wonderful. He’ll be used to doing what a woman wants.
He invited me in to his sanctuary. I swear a choir of angels sang as I crossed the threshold.
He gave me the floor. I summarised my issues. Of which there are many. I saw his pupils widen a little. There was excitement: he could immediately tell I’d be back, and that he’d buy another pair of Camper shoes off the back of that follow-up appointment alone. There was fear: livers in the context of CF had not crossed his mind since his intern days. He immediately knew he’d earn every cent of his new Camper shoes phoning a friend and trawling Google for answers.
No, seriously, that’s the plan. A bit of a flip through his Rolodex and an internet search, probably whilst watching the new series of Orange is the New Black. I’m hoping he looks further afield than Wiki.
Now I’m just a girl, sitting by the phone, nervously waiting for my new doctor to ring so we can lock in a second session of speed doctoring.