A Rant Deferred
Three weeks ago, when my dad was just a day or two post-op, still in the intensive-care unit, still on the ventilator, and still mostly unconscious, a guy in scrubs walked in while my mom, my sister, and I were at his bedside.
It was pretty obvious that we were the immediate family, since no one else is allowed in the cardiac ICU. It was also pretty obvious that this guy was a doctor, given the scrubs, the matching cap, and the gigantic attitude.
He strode right by us without a word, took a look at my dad, and then walked to the far side of the room, where a flock of monitors kept tabs on my dad's vitals.
I looked around to make sure none of us had inadvertently invoked our powers of invisibility.
Nope, we were there, plain as day. He had just chosen to ignore us. Not a word, not a nod, not a glance. Nothing.
I don't tend to put up with a lot of rude behavior. Even here in New York. Even on the subway. And especially not in my father's hospital room. And particularly not from one of the medical professionals in charge of his care.
So I asked, very directly but still quite politely, who this particular medical professional was. I think I said, "Hi. Who are you?"
He turned out to be my dad's anesthesiologist.
I don't know his name. He never told us.
Maybe he was afraid we were a family of telemarketers who might track him down and torment him with sales calls for the rest of his life. Maybe he thought one of us would try to fix him up with all of our single friends. Maybe he thought his reputation preceded him.
I can't think of any other reason why his answer to my question would not have included his name. But it didn't.
After we blew his cover, we asked him a couple of basic questions—how long the surgery was, how soon my dad might wake up, etc. I don't remember much of what he said, except that in answering one of my mother's questions, he began a sentence with the phrase "Because of his comorbidities. . . ."
By this he meant, "Because he also has diabetes and Parkinson's. . . ."
But that's not what he said.
He said, "Because of his comorbidities. . . ."
Is it really that difficult to break out of doctor-speak? Is it just impossible to converse in the vernacular of the peasants for just a few brief minutes? Does the use of jargon somehow help to maintain the mystery of one's carefully guarded identity?
And, more to the point, when talking to the family of an 80-year-old man who is lying unconscious in an intensive-care unit, must one use a term whose root connotes, above all else, DEATH?
At about this time—i.e., the moment at which I seriously considered strangulation as a coping strategy—my dad's nurse walked in. She went over to the computer terminal in his room and began reviewing his electronic chart. She hadn't been there more than five seconds when the anesthesiologist walked over, thrust his hand out, and said, "Hi, I'm Kevin."
Maybe he thought she was hot and planned to ask her out. Maybe they'd spoken on the phone earlier in the day, and he wanted to jog her memory. Maybe he just deploys good manners only around other medical professionals. After all, with any luck, he'll probably never see most patients' families ever again, so there's really no reason to expend all that effort on introducing himself.
Except that it's the right thing to do.
It was pretty obvious that we were the immediate family, since no one else is allowed in the cardiac ICU. It was also pretty obvious that this guy was a doctor, given the scrubs, the matching cap, and the gigantic attitude.
He strode right by us without a word, took a look at my dad, and then walked to the far side of the room, where a flock of monitors kept tabs on my dad's vitals.
I looked around to make sure none of us had inadvertently invoked our powers of invisibility.
Nope, we were there, plain as day. He had just chosen to ignore us. Not a word, not a nod, not a glance. Nothing.
I don't tend to put up with a lot of rude behavior. Even here in New York. Even on the subway. And especially not in my father's hospital room. And particularly not from one of the medical professionals in charge of his care.
So I asked, very directly but still quite politely, who this particular medical professional was. I think I said, "Hi. Who are you?"
He turned out to be my dad's anesthesiologist.
I don't know his name. He never told us.
Maybe he was afraid we were a family of telemarketers who might track him down and torment him with sales calls for the rest of his life. Maybe he thought one of us would try to fix him up with all of our single friends. Maybe he thought his reputation preceded him.
I can't think of any other reason why his answer to my question would not have included his name. But it didn't.
After we blew his cover, we asked him a couple of basic questions—how long the surgery was, how soon my dad might wake up, etc. I don't remember much of what he said, except that in answering one of my mother's questions, he began a sentence with the phrase "Because of his comorbidities. . . ."
By this he meant, "Because he also has diabetes and Parkinson's. . . ."
But that's not what he said.
He said, "Because of his comorbidities. . . ."
Is it really that difficult to break out of doctor-speak? Is it just impossible to converse in the vernacular of the peasants for just a few brief minutes? Does the use of jargon somehow help to maintain the mystery of one's carefully guarded identity?
And, more to the point, when talking to the family of an 80-year-old man who is lying unconscious in an intensive-care unit, must one use a term whose root connotes, above all else, DEATH?
At about this time—i.e., the moment at which I seriously considered strangulation as a coping strategy—my dad's nurse walked in. She went over to the computer terminal in his room and began reviewing his electronic chart. She hadn't been there more than five seconds when the anesthesiologist walked over, thrust his hand out, and said, "Hi, I'm Kevin."
Maybe he thought she was hot and planned to ask her out. Maybe they'd spoken on the phone earlier in the day, and he wanted to jog her memory. Maybe he just deploys good manners only around other medical professionals. After all, with any luck, he'll probably never see most patients' families ever again, so there's really no reason to expend all that effort on introducing himself.
Except that it's the right thing to do.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 6:54 PM
3 Comments:
Wow. It really is astonishing, isn't it? And all too common, sadly. Overall, I think we were really lucky to have had as many compassionate doctors as we did with Barry.
The dad of one of our grad students was a surgeon. And a few years ago, he found himself on the other side of the knife and the ICU. She said it was a huge wake-up call to him, when he received exactly the kind of brusque treatment you describe...and finally (years too late) realized how rude he himself had been to countless patients. Seems like they oughta be able to teach doctors that kind of sensibility without thrusting them under the knife, too.
Maybe he's just a colossal jerk.
When my dad was in hospital most recently a nurse woke him at 2:00 a.m. to tell him that he shouldn't cough or sneeze because it might cause his blood clot to explode and kill him. Sheesh.
Speaking of the Parents, I plan to be in NYC with them the weekend of March 16-18 and would LOVE to see you. Can I get on the calendar?
Anesthesiologists are anesthesiologists because they are weird.
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