No One Is To Blame

It’s honestly hard to relate to another person’s dilemma if you haven’t actually been through it yourself.  The reason I’m saying this is because I watched and for the most part, participated in the appointments and relative testing of a close family member.  I visited doctors and listened intently as each one floated in and out of the medical office with their own sense of style and grace.  I use those adjectives loosely as at this point in time, I’ve truly only met one gentleman among all these healing gurus who has successfully completed his medical school honors, and most likely other prestigious schools and classes to garner the knowledge to actually make a difference in how I feel about the medical community as a whole.   One.  A genuinely caring person with high standing in the hospital he practices.

The sad part of this statement is that I, myself have had many surgeries over the past 4 years, and the opportunity to meet many, many doctors, physician assistants, nurses, medical testing technicians and the like.  I’ve come into contact with more therapeutic personnel than I care to mention.  I do believe that for whatever the reason,  most of the medical population working in healthcare today could really give two shits about you.  They exist for a pay check only.  Your health, sanity and complaints are wasted on deaf ears.  They look beyond you, staring through your tormented, withering soul sitting atop the uncomfortably sorry excuse for an exam table.   They appear to listen to your problems as they type into their little laptops.  Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.  Did I not just fill out a boat load of paperwork in the waiting room which includes everything but my high school transcripts? Yep, that was me.  I checked all the boxes that applied.  I already listed my medications.  I included every one of my 300 surgeries.  You made a copy of my insurance card and my drivers license to be sure that I’m not trying to get that MRI of my brain, with my entire head encased in a plastic cage, contrast dye shooting into a vein in my arm intravenously with someone else’s health insurance.  Ya, I’m using someone else’s insurance card, just getting the test because I like being completely immobilized in a tube with the sound of a jackhammer pounding into my ear drums.  I’m certain that nobody will ever find out that I’m using someone else’s insurance.  Really?

Doctors don’t want to really be bothered with finding out what is causing your symptoms.  We live in a world of instant gratification.  You go to a doctor with a problem that you can’t fix yourself, they treat the issue surrounding it, pump you with some medication to ease your concern and CALL IT A DAY!  To me this is so frustrating.  I’ve been treated with an ailment for the past year and a half, being asked to return every 3-6 months, with no relative absolution to my illness.  As I continue their expert diagnosis of:  “Attempt, Wait and Fail”,  conservative approach to treatment, I’m no closer to resolve than I was when I started.  Recently new issues arose and I’ve already paid my “specialist” copay to 4 doctors, had 2 tests for my condition with an out of pocket over $150.00, and STILL am no further along than I was when it started.  The last doctor of medicine that I met with liked to play a fun game with me.  When he couldn’t find a reason for my illness, he proceeded to ask me what I thought was wrong with me.  Being the thrifty little bug that I am, of course I’ve researched my symptoms online.  No, I don’t always think I’m dying, but I do try to self-diagnose.  Hey why not, the doctors aren’t taking the bull by the horns, why shouldn’t I attempt it?  It’s not going to help, but at least I’ll feel somewhat fulfilled in the fact that someone, albeit myself, is making an attempt to determine the cause of my affliction.  Jokingly he told me that my headaches were, and I quote, “all in my head”.  He finished that comment with a gentle chuckle.  How cute is that?

The state of healthcare in the United States is deteriorating in epic proportion.  We have become a country that ingests hormone fed animals, most of which are being confined in spaces half their size, and treating our necessary toxic consumption filled diseases with prescribed addiction pain killers.  It’s the easy way out.

It’s bad and it’s only going to get worse.  When I hear of an 80 year old Vicodin addict, trading their premium Social Security check for a necessary “fix” of anesthetic pellets of deterioration, I can only wonder how on God’s earth we’re going to  make it out alive.

Oh guess what, we’re not.

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