Medic Alert

Back when tobacco-sponsored medical dramas showed people smoking in planes, restaurants and oxygen tents, Hollywood portrayed heath-care professionals as quiet heroes devoted to their patients' well-being. Sure, Ben Casey got angry, but only when the St. Nicotinia Hospital administrators balked at the experimental treatment (smoking) that could save little Susie, or when nurses neglected their duties:

“This patient needs surgery! Get a match, STAT!”

“The patient's AB negative, Doctor.”

“No, a MATCH! How do you expect me to operate without a cigarette? Just put the ashtray on the pancreas. Now sponge my forehead, and flick my ash away from the spleen.”

TV doctors don't smoke anymore. Instead they're sex-crazed substance-abusing megalomaniacs, which would be okay, except they're also mean. They've forgotten the gentle example of doctors Kildare and Welby, who never bullied their patients or whacked them with a cane. Doc Adams patiently dug bullets out of Dodge City's slow-draws, even though they were guest stars and therefore doomed. Bones McCoy may have been brusque at times (“Dammit, Jim! I'm a doctor, not a fiduciary actuarial analyst!”) but he did his best, even for the red-shirted Security personnel who never lived past the opening credits.

Like their predecessors, today's docs cure their patients (except the ones that main characters fall in love with; they're doomed). But first they misdiagnose the illness, subject the patient to painful tests and treatments, and probe secrets out of personal histories and even-more-personal orifices.

While real-life doctors may not be as abusive as their on-screen counterparts, they fail to grasp that when patients put on flimsy gowns missing essential ties and lacking yards of fabric, they cease to be reality-based life forms and become quivering blobs of terrified protoplasm convinced of impending doom. Perhaps health-care providers could be required to read a statement to patients, as police are required to Mirandize suspects:

"Don't panic! These are routine tests. We promise not to report the results in an ambiguous phone message at 4:55 on Friday before a three-day weekend so you have to worry about it until Monday and play it over and over trying to decide if our tone is somber or reassuring. Again, don't panic! Unless you're a guest star or love interest or wearing a red shirt.)”

Or perhaps an interpreter could silently shadow each doctor and indicate, through gestures and facial expressions, when the doctor strays into medical flights of fancy. A headshake and eyeroll could reassure the patient that, even though a case of kleptoparabisonymia would make a fascinating article for the American Journal of Medical Wishful Thinking, it's an extremely unlikely diagnosis. (This would also provide mimes with gainful employment and get them off the streets, where they don't get run over nearly often enough.)

Perhaps one day the inadequate gowns will be made of mood-sensing material, so doctors could tell when they've alarmed the patient:

Doctor: Your test results show a slight elevation in your polyesteriptides. Have you ever been to Pago Pago?

Patient: Nooo... (ohmygodIhavesomehorribletropicaldiseaseI'mdoomed)

D: I'm considering it for my next vacation. Tahiti's just too touristy now....

P: Hunh.

D: (to nurse) I'm reminded of an interesting paper I read in the latest AJMWT. The patient had ingested a larvae-infested papaya...

P: (Oh my god! I've eaten papaya! Or was it mango? I'm doooooomed!)

D: The larvae hatched into three-foot long worms that traveled throughout the bloodstream. The patient complained of feeling like his skin was crawling...

P: (AAAAHHHH!!! My skin IS crawling!!)

D: Now what made me think of that? Oh yes! I had fruit salad at lunch. With papaya. Or maybe mango.. Now, where were we?

P: Uhhhhhh....

D: Right. Your singing angiogram was a little flat, but within normal range. We also checked your trinomials and porte-cocheres, and would like to follow up with a look at your medusa arigato. Have you had any pain on your right side?

P: Ye-es, now that you mention it.... (Ohmygod! I probably have major organs on my right side!)

D: Oh well, not to worry. Now if it was your left side...

Doctor and nurse laugh knowingly.

P: (Ohmygod! Maybe it was my left side! I'm doooooomed!)

D: Just a little medical humor there. Ha Ha!

P: (doomed doomed doomed)

Mood-sensing gown bursts into flames. Interpreter mimes using a fire extinguisher. Doctor and nurse light cigarettes and discuss their article for the AJMWF. Patient is doomed.