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Latest Voices
Mine and Theirs
Forty-five years ago, during a sabbatical at a solo practice in a rural village in Wales, I learned to push back against office conformity.
The British National Health Service (NHS) had a prescribed set of colors for exam room furniture that they undoubtedly bought in bulk and provided as part of their support for general practitioners. Most offices I visited during my nine months with the NHS had standard-issue exam rooms.
Appearances Can Indeed be Deceiving
It was long enough ago that I can’t recall why (did I change jobs? did my doctor stop taking my insurance?), but I was forced to find a new ob-gyn. Anyway, this would be my first female doctor, which promised to make the annual visit more comfortable.
Indeed, “comfortable” seemed to be the byword of her practice. The tastefully appointed waiting room with its soft lighting, vintage botanical prints, and soothing pastels looked more like a Laura Ashley living room than a conventional doctor’s office. There was a nicer than usual selection of magazines, too, I noticed. I sank appreciatively
The Yellow Brick Road
Follow the blue brick-patterned rug to Elevator G. Press the button for the tenth floor. Stop at the check-in sign. Wait behind the do-not-cross-this-line sign. Finally, it’s your turn. They strap a white bracelet on you—after you recite the secret passwords: Greta Garbo. 9/18/1905. 3135331.
Then you sit. You bury yourself in your phone, trying not to drink in all the misery around you. Everyone has something. Everyone is waiting. Everyone sits with their head bowed. Three seats down a guy is snoring—rip-ragged, chain-sawing, full-out snoring. No one wakes him.
Humor 101
Several days a year I’m what’s known as a Standardized Patient. An actor. A fake. A learning tool for beginning medical students. From interacting with me, they learn to communicate with “real” people in a medical setting.
My Happy Place
Now seventy, I still remember the moment I walked into an exam room, in my thirties, prepared to help someone, and suddenly realized that this was my happy place. To greet someone, close the door, sometimes shake hands, then sit down on my rolling stool and share my brain and heart to solve some puzzle, using science and art, whether listening, touching, teaching or questioning. Very grateful to be accepted and needed, and learning from everyone.
Lisa Ramey
Peterborough, New Hampshire
Learning Spanish
My preceptor sent me into a patient room, telling me, “When you come out, I want you to tell me what country the patient is from.” I had just begun my family medicine rotation with Dr. Alberto Rodriguez in his practice in Hartford, Connecticut.
As a middle school student, I’d chosen Spanish as a second language from a purely practical standpoint: in the U.S., I was pretty sure I’d be more likely to encounter a Spanish-speaking person than a French-speaking person. Over time, I became passionate about continuing to improve my Spanish conversational ability.
An Unwelcoming Room
I’m not sure which is worse: a physician’s exam room or a dentist’s office. An exam room is eerie in its silence, while the demonic whine of a dental office drill sends a shiver down my spine. But ultimately it may be the exam room, despite its potential to diagnose whatever diseases may be attacking my body, that scares me more. Its instruments evoke pain, its sterility the nothingness of death.
Unraveling
A certain patient and I had always enjoyed an easy rapport at his annual exams and occasional acute care appointments.
Then one morning he presented with an itchy skin rash. The skin findings were minimal; he had tried over-the-counter creams to no avail. I prescribed a more potent topical medication, and he left satisfied. Two weeks later he called again, this time asking for an urgent visit. The rash had spread and the itch was keeping him up at night. He sent photos via the portal, but their blurriness made them difficult to decipher.
September More Voices: The Exam Room
Dear readers,
When I think of an exam room, I picture the spaces I worked in during my thirty-three years as a family doctor. I picture walking into a cramped room whose stark surfaces and bare walls offered little warmth or hint of comfort. I imagine the major piece of furniture, an exam table, covered with a white paper that audibly crinkles at the slightest touch.
I picture the guest of honor, my patient–who surely does not feel like a guest of honor in these surroundings. They’ve been waiting for ten, twenty or thirty minutes–and sometimes longer–for my knock and
