THE IDEAL PATIENT [W, 9-3-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Adventures of An Old Man—THE IDEAL PATIENT [W, 9-3-25]

 

The main social life of old people is medical appointments, so I went to see our doctor last week. She’s smart, insightful, diligent, and pleasant. She’s managed to stick it out with me for ten years. I thanked her for that.

As I thanked her, I admitted that I am not the ideal patient, because I am not cooperative. I have sometimes rejected tests that she wanted me to take, not because I think I am smarter than she is, or even that I know my body better, but because I do know best what I want out of life. That is more likely to include drinking coffee and watching ballgames than colonoscopies and heart monitors. After all, I’m a busy guy.

What any doctor wants is to help people have better health. Sometimes, though, that is not what we patients want.

That’s especially true with old people. If we want to zip line or parasail, why not? Yes, it would be embarrassing to die from a fall on a mountain, when we are supposed to die from a fall on the doorway rug, but, cremation costs the same, either way.

Even though I am not her ideal patient, our doctor did once say that I am “the perfect patient,” because I tell her my problems in the correct order of symptoms, and stick to the order without distractions. She says she doesn’t even have to take notes.

That’s not surprising; I was a narrative preacher for almost 70 years, and a narrative person for almost 89. I know where to start a story, and where to end it.

So, she was probably expecting one, or more, of those narratives when, after I told her my hip was now better, she asked what else was wrong.

“I’ve got a lot of stuff wrong,” I said, “but I’m not going to tell you about it, because you’ll want to do something about it. Medical people and wives, you dare not tell them anything, unless you want to go through all the annoying bother and pain they’ll put you through to fix it.”

I told her about my encounter with the physical therapist for my hip. I was getting along fine, when one day he had me start all kinds of really exhausting exercises that didn’t seem to have anything to do with my hip. “Why are you making me do this?” I moaned. “I’m dying.”

“Well, you said you wanted better balance.”

“No, I didn’t,” I protested. “I said I have bad balance. I didn’t say I wanted better balance.”

He thought about it and said, “You’re right. You only said you have bad balance. I just assumed that meant you wanted better balance.”

My doctor listened to that, nodded, and said, “Yes. Sometimes we do not listen well. So, we’ll negotiate, you and I. What tests are you willing to do today?”

A breakthrough. She has always just handed a note to the nurse and told her to take me to the lab and have them do the tests on the note. She started reading the stuff on her list. I agreed to some of it. She marked off the rest of it.

 

I was happy that I agreed to some testing, because I got to spend time in the lab waiting room. I had a good time there being pastoral with a young woman who was waiting for a scary test. When the lab woman told me I could go, I said, “No, I want to talk some more.” I didn’t want to leave the young woman in that small room by herself.

I have a bit of a reputation in the doctor place. Once, a nurse stuck her head into the lab waiting room and said, “The word is out that you are in the building.” They have an early warning system, apparently.

As I checked out this time, and made my next appointment, the computer lady asked if I wanted a summary of my visit. I said, “No, I just told her jokes.”

“Oh, tell them to us, too,” she said.

“No,” I replied. “They were all bad jokes. Old men always think they are funny, but they aren’t.”

“Actually,” she said, “you sort of are.”

John Robert McFarland

“Everybody you meet will be either better off or worse off because they spent time with you, even just a moment. Help them be better.” Bill Lennon to his daughters, The Lennon Sisters.