Medicalese

Dr. Cynical was in fine form. He said my blood pressure was a bit high, so what was I afraid of? What did I think he would do to me? He’d just said I should up my dose of the beta blocker, which can cause light-headedness, depression, and weight-gain, thank you very much, so I said that was what I was afraid of, him upping my dose (Gotta be fair. He wasn’t trying to be cynical, just funny…in a doctor sort of way). He said it was up to me, then, what I wanted to do. I could quadruple my dose if I felt I needed to. Quadruple? Why? I think my level of light-headedness, depression and weight-gain is just fine, thank you very much.

You enter another world when you walk into the doctor’s office. He’s talking fast, well within his area of expertise, and you are scrambling to keep up, to take in the implications of what he’s saying, trying to remember your questions, your concerns, trying to figure out from your list of twelve (twelve!) medications and vitamins and supplements which one he’s referring to. It’s all so obvious to him and not to you. “Metopropol, that’s the one. And when you wrote out your list, you should have included the frequency you take them. That’s important (I know!) Is that 25 mg once a day or twice? Is it a white pill? Next one: Dexamethasone 4mg. How many times is that each day? How many pills? How long?”

He’s moved on, and I’m still trying to find D-e-x-a-m-e-t-h… I didn’t think to put them in alphabetical order! Where’s my brain? For him this language is English, while for me it’s Medicalese. (Speaking of languages, a friend of ours told us that his pastor put the first page of his passport up on the screen for the church to see. On the line marked “Nationality,” it clearly said, printed up by the Canadian government itself: Heavenese! What border-crossing stories he must have! “Ok, sir, what are you bringing from your home country today?)

And just when I think I have a handle on things, on how everything is so interconnected, I bring up the Muga Scan. I mean, someone needs to be interested in the Muga Scan. That was a huge machine, and he’s a cardiologist. He says, no, it’s not that important to him because the Muga Scan tracks damage to the heart, and by what he can tell, the architecture is just fine. (Whew!) What’s wrong is the electrical wiring, the rhythm, which he says, “is a pain in the butt but not life-threatening…unless you’re 80.” He’s just fine with the little EKG they do in the lab next door. He’ll let the Cancer People keep up the Scans, tracking the damage they are doing to the heart, but he’s working on the rhythm. The doses. The timing of an ablation (not oblation!) that could accidentally nick a node and leave you with a pacemaker for the rest of your life or could accidentally perforate your heart and leave you dead. Great.

 Outside in the waiting room, a petite lady is waiting to take her turn with Dr. Cynical. I am in and out in 15 minutes. He had called her first, but she had protested, saying my appointment was earlier, and so he sent her back and called me in, apologizing for mixing up our files. When I leave the office, I ask if I’ve been fast enough, and she smiles. Or I think she does. She’s wearing a mask, but her eyes twinkle. “Yes; that was perfect. You have a great evening.” Finally. Someone who speaks my language.