Say Aaaahrrrrgh

I want to hemorrhage all over them. It’s the least I can do. Or flash a blue urine sample. One should rehearse entertaining symptoms. These are testy, severe, pretentious men: doctors audition you. I stammer; I apologize; I rush my lines. And I can always guess what, tap-tap, they’re thinking: “Look at him, call that a patient? Eight years of medical school and this is what I have to put up with: some schlemiel who’ll never manage more than a low-grade infection.” The doctor’s office is part of Gulag: my BA degree, my passport, my Christian name have been revoked. I am a man from the underground. Somehow my pants won’t stay up; I have to grab the beltline. (Of course, it was lots worse in England under National Health. One doctor simply gave me the quick thumb. “Look, chap,” he said, “I’m overworked and underpaid and don’t you ever come in here with such a bloody trivial throat inflammation again.” Next day both my eardrums broke and I was 80 per cent deaf for seven weeks. When people tell me about the virtues of socialized medicine, I answer, “Eh, what was that again?”) There is a cheap, habit-forming arrogance in doctors: the arrogance of men who breed small animals for their fur. It’s us or them, baby.

You don’t believe? For laughs, some day, pick up a medical magazine: aaaaah, the irritation with and the fat condescension toward patients. Medical practice, you sense, would be so pleasant without all those damned sick people. I have several magazines here: let’s listen to the November 15, 1975 issue of Patient Care. Six doctors are having a round-table on acute and chronic diarrhea. I give you three or four bestbedside-manner quotations.

DK

About the Author

D. Keith Mano

D. Keith Mano was a TV screenwriter and author of ten books, including Take 5, recipient of the 1987 Literary Lion award, and columnist at National Review magazine for 17 years.

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I want to hemorrhage all over them. It’s the least I can do. Or flash a blue urine sample. One should rehearse entertaining symptoms. These are testy, severe, pretentious men: doctors audition you. I stammer; I apologize; I rush my lines. And I can always guess what, tap-tap, they’re thinking: “Look at him, call that a patient? Eight years of medical school and this is what I have to put up with: some schlemiel who’ll never manage more than a low-grade infection.” The doctor’s office is part of Gulag: my BA degree, my passport, my Christian name have been revoked. I am a man from the underground. Somehow my pants won’t stay up; I have to grab the beltline. (Of course, it was lots worse in England under National Health. One doctor simply gave me the quick thumb. “Look, chap,” he said, “I’m overworked and underpaid and don’t you ever come in here with such a bloody trivial throat inflammation again.” Next day both my eardrums broke and I was 80 per cent deaf for seven weeks. When people tell me about the virtues of socialized medicine, I answer, “Eh, what was that again?”) There is a cheap, habit-forming arrogance in doctors: the arrogance of men who breed small animals for their fur. It’s us or them, baby.

You don’t believe? For laughs, some day, pick up a medical magazine: aaaaah, the irritation with and the fat condescension toward patients. Medical practice, you sense, would be so pleasant without all those damned sick people. I have several magazines here: let’s listen to the November 15, 1975 issue of Patient Care. Six doctors are having a round-table on acute and chronic diarrhea. I give you three or four bestbedside-manner quotations.

DK

About the Author

D. Keith Mano

D. Keith Mano was a TV screenwriter and author of ten books, including Take 5, recipient of the 1987 Literary Lion award, and columnist at National Review magazine for 17 years.