Just What the Doctor Ordered: A Dose of My Own Medicine

The human body is a marvel of biological engineering, capable of fighting off microscopic invaders and healing broken bones. Yet, it possesses one fatal design flaw: it completely malfunctions the moment it enters a medical facility. A visit last winter convinced me that my going to the doctor did not cure illnesses; it actually manufactured them. The waiting room of the doctor’s clinic was a medical paradox where time had died and germ-swapping was the primary local economy.

It was a unique ecosystem populated by people leafing through magazines, all collectively pretending not to hear the aggressive, wet cough echoing from the last row. I entered with a mild, questionable cough, and I was instantly convinced I have three days to live. The downward spiral began the moment I crossed the threshold and inhaled that distinct, antiseptic scent—a sterile cocktail of rubbing alcohol, anxiety, and despair. Immediately, my body went into survival mode. The ambient coughing from the corner chair, occupied by a man who sounded like he was clearing a throat full of gravel, instantly amplified my symptoms. Suddenly, my mild cough felt deeper.

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Was that a rattle in my chest? It sure was. I sat on a vinyl chair that was seemingly designed by a chiropractor looking to drum up future business, and itstuck to my legs. I was trying hard not to breathe, realizing that the waiting room is actually a biological exchange program. The ambient soundtrack in the room was a chaotic symphony of screaming toddlers, daytime television playing at maximum volume, and the receptionist’s keyboard clicking with the urgency of a bomb defusal. It was the only place on earth where the remedy felt significantly more punishing than the ailment. I decided to glance through the waiting room literature. Normal businesses provide current magazines. The doctors’ clinic provided a historical archive of human misery.

I picked up a tattered medical journal missing its cover. As I flipped the pages, my mind wandered to the posters on the wall. They showed highly detailed, neon-colored cross-sections of the human colon, or lists of vague symptoms that apply to everyone.: ‘Are you tired? Do you blink? Do your feet touch the floor when you stand? You might have rare b one alignment syndrome’. Soon, I had self-diagnosed three chronic conditions. Nothing makes me feel closer to death than clipboard paper work . The moment a plastic board is slapped into my hands, time grinds to a violent halt.

As I stared at the form, I was asked to recall my entire medical history while a television blared an ‘infomercial’ for joint pain medication at maximum volume. I was asked to recall the exact year I had my tonsils removed, my second cousin’s phone number and whether I am allergic to pet dander or just life in general. The attached pen was tethered by a sticky, coiled blue string that was exactly three inches too short, forcing me to hunch over like a medieval scribe writing by candlelight. By the time the nurse called my name, my heart rate had doubled from sheer environmental stress. Next was the judgment phase, legally disguised as “taking your vitals.”

I stood on the weighing scale. Since it was January, I was wearing heavy winter clothes and boots, but the nurse offered no concessions. I stared at the number in horror. It was not a slight shock but a full-blown betrayal. That mechanical beast brazenly added enough mystery “white bloat” to suggest I had eaten a small sedan for breakfast, ignoring the fact that my boots and heavy jacket were entirely to blame. Then came the blood pressure test. This classic check-up routine involved me trying to calm my nervous system by doing some deep breathing exercises. However, the moment the blood pressure cuff tightened, my fingertips turned purple and I was absolutely convinced that the machine was about to take my arm on a dangerous flight, inevitably yielding a reading that convinced the nurse that I had just run a marathon rather than sat in a waiting room. She frowned, clicked her tongue and asked, “Is your blood pressure usually this high?” Of course it isn’t.

It was perfect until I was subjected to this high-stakes interrogation. Finally, I was marooned in the examination room. Stripped of my clothes and my dignity, I sat on an examination table draped in loud, crinkly paper. Every tiny movement sounded like an explosion. I waited. And waited. Time lost all meaning. I stared at the anatomical posters on the wall, tracking the terrifying complexity of the human nervous system, convinced that every nerve ending on that poster is currently misfiring in my own body. When the doctor finally walked in, the ultimate betrayal happened: my symptoms vanished! The persistent wheeze silenced itself. Under the doctor’s intense gaze, I looked like a fraud. I was forced to awkwardly recreate my symptoms.

I performed a fake cough that sounded like a dying engine. I poked my stomach to show where it used to hurt. The doctor looked at me with a mixture of pity and boredom, and gave me a clean bill of health. The nurse handed me a bill that triggered actual chest pains and sent me on my way. I walked out into the fresh air, instantly cured, wondering how a one-hour visit to a doctor could make me feel like I just survived a plague. I walked out into the parking lot, my wallet lighter and my sanity compromised. The fresh air hit my face, and my original mild cough magically returned. I was exhausted, stressed, and my arm still hurt from the blood pressure cuff. I came in seeking health, but I left needing a nap, a hot soup, and a vow to never look at a medical scale again.

The author is a retired officer of the Indian Foreign Service (1976 Batch).