Listen to this story: If you’re in the car, or cooking, or just lazy… you can listen to me read this story for you, in the audio file below.
Why do I dislike my doctor so much? Well, it started with the sandals, in the office. Then the way he clasped his hands together in a prayer pose, bowed a little and said, “Namaste”. To which I replied, “Hello.” All within the first five seconds of meeting him.
This was almost two years ago. Ever since, rather than refer to him by his name, at home my wife and I just call him “Namaste”. It helps, somehow.
Namaste has ideas. New, hip ideas that might shock you, man. Ones he delivers quietly, in his whisper voice, that nonetheless land on my brain like a mallet. Causing me to double-take, often while half-dressed. Ideas about running without shoes on, eating lots of red meat (his favorite), avoiding gluten, the power of turmeric and other “supplements”, and the ravages of man-made spike proteins. Just ideas, man. Thoughts, you know? Ultimately, his advice is to “do whatever you want to do.”
You’re probably picturing this man in a yurt, accepting raw honey as payment. You may even reasonably assume that he’s East Asian. No. This white hepcat works in a big glass building, filled with other doctors, the same one I take my children to. With ticketed parking, and a greeter, and countless office staff. One where no matter what nonsense transpires in the examination room, they bill the hell out of your health insurance.
I nearly broke up with Namaste earlier this year, when he hard-launched his “concierge” service. I went from barely being able to get him on the phone, to receiving promotional mailers, emails, and multiple calls from his office about an upcoming zoom seminar, in which he’d be outlining the new program and taking questions. Not about your health, just the program.
Eventually I read the fine print on one of the mailers and learned that he’d be requiring an extra two thousand dollars a year from me to join the service. From what I could glean, this was just to get his full attention. That’s a heavy sell from a man in sandals.
Feeling sufficiently badgered, I called the office and in no uncertain terms asked them to stop harassing me. They did, mercifully. Later I canceled my upcoming yearly physical and vowed to move on.
Time passed, more people I know got sick - some seriously - and it was over a year since my last physical. I wanted to get my blood examined by a lab at the very least. After all, what I really want to know most times I go to the doctor for a checkup is; do I have cancer?
Isn’t that what we’re all thinking, really? The other stuff I know about; my heart and the drinking and the no smoking and the exercise and the not getting fat. I can see all that, it’s tangible in a way. Cancer, though… that can just spring up anywhere inside you and do you in.
The last time I asked a friend in my neighborhood for a reference to a good doctor, I wound up in an all-night clinic by a parking lot behind a diner. I thought Google maps had sent me to the wrong place. There was a guy begging out front, who at one point made it into the reception area, where he was met in an alarmingly casual way by the staff, like that kind of thing happens all the time.
Lacking a better referral within fifteen miles, it seemed Namaste was still my best bet. So I rebooked my physical and gave him one last shot at making a connection.
That day I awoke in a bad mood, dreading the visit. I had fasted for the blood test and, stomach-rumbling, made my way to the office. The greeter was there, reading a Bill O’Reilly book and pointing people in clearly marked directions. The wait wasn’t long, but I’ve come to suspect that Namaste’s not exactly slammed. A kind nurse took my blood pressure, measured my oxygen levels, had me stand on the scale, and that is what I’ll remember as the bulk of the medical activity for the day.
Namaste wandered in, in that fashionably late way doctors love to. Tempering his bow this time, as I’m assuming there’s a note about my initial reaction somewhere in the file. He had shoes on, too - well something approximating them anyway - that looked like a child had molded clay around his feet. Still, it was better than seeing a grown man’s toes under full fluorescent light at 10:30 in the morning. He put a stethoscope to my chest, had a quick look in my mouth, then started wrapping up with some chit-chat.
“Do you want me to check you for skin or testicular cancer?” he asked me, head cocked, as if it would be kind of uncool to.
Do I want you to…? I thought. No, I don’t want men to see me naked and hold my balls in their hand…
“I mean, I guess you might as well…” I said. “I’m here.”
I stripped down. All clear, according to Namaste. The nurse would be right in with my flu shot.
Just before he slid out the door I asked, “How about blood tests?”
He looked at me like he was deciding whether or not to have another drink. “Nah,” he said. “I think you’re good. You’re healthy.”
I’m not sure if that was meant to come off as a compliment, but it didn’t feel good and certainly wasn’t reassuring. “Are you sure?” I asked, thinking about clandestine cancer cells inside my blood silently jumping for joy. Keep a lid on it, we’re nearly home free!
“Yeah, you’re good,” Namaste said again. Like he could just tell by looking at me. “I mean, do you want to?”
Now I wasn’t so sure I wanted to. Maybe I was being precious. “I guess not,” I said, desperate to get out of the building.
“Ciao,” he replied, halfway out the door. No wonder his medical advice is all over the place, he can’t even stick to a language.
At the checkout desk, after declining the offer to make a future appointment, I wondered: Why is everything in here up to me? I know doctors get a bad wrap for not consulting enough with their patients, but aren’t these decisions what I’m paying him for? He’s the one with a degree, I’m just another idiot with the Internet. I left hungry and determined to find a new doctor as soon as possible, if only for my yearly blood test.
Later on I looked up the word “namaste”, just to be totally clear as to how ridiculous and borderline-culturally inappropriate my doctor’s use of it is. Turns out it’s also a way of saying “Goodbye”.
So, Namaste, Doc. Nama-fucking-ste.
What a shocker. The only thing worse than just sandals, its sandals and long socks pulled up just under the knee. In a city that size there has got to be someone better than this idiot. I'm disturbed just hearing about him.