Doc, Tell Me the Truth, Why do You Hate Me?

Metaphorically, this looks about right.  

My doctor and I have an interesting relationship.  As in, he loathes me.  Every couple of months I reschedule for another half hour of verbal abuse from his delightful Indo-American accent, and yet I feel a strange sense of loyalty to the man.  Perhaps this is that weird psychological disorder that battered women feel--deep down, I think, he really loves me.  Maybe it's Stockholm syndrome.

"Chris, you are perhaps, my worst patient," he said last time, after realizing I had gained two pounds over the holidays.

"Really?"  I asked incredulously. "I'm your only patient who added some holiday cheer around the mid-section?"

"Not just that, Chris, you don't respect my time. I give you a medication and you don't take it, you are a waste of my time.  Why should I still treat you if you don't follow my advice?"

"I took all the medication except one!"  "It was $75.00 for a month of pills?"  I defended my decision to not fill the prescription based on the fact that it wasn't a life threatening issue, and because I hadn't had a problem related to that malady in at least three years.

"Not life threatening?  How do you know it isn't {long Latin word here}? Why did you stop taking the other medicine I gave you?"

I suddenly was trying to memorize the Latin word he said to go home and look up on WebMD.  "Oh, well, it made me really light headed, I almost fainted a few times.  Then my heart would race really fast.  I looked it up online, and there were all kinds of complaints, so..."

"Chris, do you have a medical degree?" "No, well I do, and let me tell you that the internet is full of quacks and people who will die of easily curable diseases and maladies."  "I have another patient who is your age who refuses to take my advice and he had a stroke.  I don't like visiting patients in the ER who have strokes because they refuse to take medication. If you have a problem with a medicine, come to the office and we will change it. Because if you want to refuse my help, and have a stroke, that's fine, but I don't want to have the obligation to visit you in the hospital."

It's funny. This man has the power to say almost anything he wants to me, because he's ultimately trying to "save my life."  And I can respect that.  Not many people are basically honest, let alone brutally honest, anymore.

"Is he this honest with his staff? I asked the medical transcriptionist who is always frantically typing information into a computer during my "visits."

"Yes, you always know where you stand with Dr. ___________."  She said flatly, with a little pent-up hostility.

"I'm sure." I replied with a funny laugh.  "Although, it's probably nicer than never knowing what your boss thinks of you, like most of us feel..."

Another idea I had to scrap because
somebody else beat me to it. 

I honestly wish my doctor had editorial skills, because it would be nice to have an honest opinion on whether or not I should still be seeking publishing.  "Hey, Doc, what do you think of my novel, do you think I should continue to pursue this path?"

"Chris, you overuse commas, your symbolism is obvious, your dialogue forced, characters unbelievable, and your prose looks like it was translated from Turkish by a first year Japanese student.  I wouldn't publish this unless you replaced every word with a different and better word, and then put someone else's more attractive name on the cover.  The only thing I liked was the ending, and that's because it was finally over.  I realize that this Word document is probably only like a megabyte on your computer, but I think it is one megabyte that your hard drive could desperately use for more important files, like spam email, a few viruses, or three .gif files of guys getting hit in the crotch with baseballs."

Surely, I jest. I don't really want to hear that. But some actual honesty, good or bad, would be nice; and I'm not sure anyone, besides my doctor, still diagnoses honest reality anymore.