So lately, I’ve been thinking about doctors. Not because I haven’t had other things to think about, but because I’ve been visiting them. As with most normal routines, it’s not until you experience them in another culture that you realize how much your own culture forms your expectations. For example, my expectation when I go to the dairy section of the grocery store is to be walk up to the shelf, grab a tub of yogurt, and walk away. But now that I enjoy living in a new culture, I am aware of a cultural expectation I was previously blind to: I expect to enjoy silence as I make my yogurt selection. Here, I will dawdle in every other section of the grocery store, delaying my advance into the dairy section as long as possible. Then I summon courage and plunge into a cacophony of sounds as at least ten over-amplified hawkers simultaneously push their products in a space the size of a minivan. Even worse are the days that one tries to be helpful and offers suggestions to me standing six inches from my face while still talking into the microphone. I have no proof to back this claim, but I think most of the country is suffering from hearing loss and that is why all the hawkers’ microphone dials are set to eleven.
But as much fun as the grocery store is, I have been pondering our quaint American ideas on what makes a good doctor. Upon entering the country, I had my immigration physical. I knew it was coming. But it wasn’t until I entered the immigration building that I realized too late that I should have asked questions first. I felt like I was on a weird scavenger hunt. Armed with a beginner translator and a checklist, we (my first-time translator, about fifty unrelated immigrants, and me) wandered the unlit halls of the immigration building, taking tests and getting stickers (okay, fine, signatures) along the way. Perhaps the low point in this bizarre scavenger hunt should have been the urine sample (unlit, sewery smelling bathroom with teeny, tiny test-tubes for the samples, oh, and no soap). But I was still mentally off-balance from my ultrasound. When I found the ultrasound room (and scored a point in my imaginary scavenger hunt), the lab tech grabbed my checklist and pointed to the bed. I lay down. With no greeting or even looking at me, she pointed to my shirt and said, “Off.” When I started to take my shirt off, she said, “No, off.” She meant “up.” She squirted the gel stuff on my and did her test. Then, she dismissed me by throwing one tissue on my stomach and saying, “Go.” I know that the lab tech knew how to do her job, but a huge American part of me felt like she didn’t just because she never looked at me. That’s when I started to wonder why I think my doctor’s care is better if she chats with me first. Her doctoring skill does not change based on her ability to engage in small talk. And then, to compound these thoughts, I started watching House, a tv show predicated on the idea that a complete jerk can be skilled doctor. Between House, my immigration physical, and two different traditional doctors here (one who spoke no English and one with limited English), I’m starting to wonder if interaction is necessary at all in a doctor’s visit. For my first traditional doctor’s visit, I practiced all the words for my symptoms; I was ready. But he didn’t ask me any questions. He told my translator what my symptoms were just by looking at me and checking my pulse. And he was right. So, what I’ve learned about doctor’s visits: looking at the patient is optional, listening to the patient is even more optional, and being polite to the patient really is a waste of time.
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