CRIMSON COMMENTS by Rose McGlew
I cannot adequately express the loathing I feel when I have to go to the doctor. You know that grossed out, kind of scared feeling you get when you see a mouse scurry across your garage floor? That is one way to begin to describe it. You know the mouse is out there, you know you’re going to have to confront it sometime in the future, but you really don’t want to see it again.
I very rarely even go to the doctor but we’ve been out here long enough that I felt I really needed to pick a doctor I liked rather than relying on the one I just picked out of the provider book from our insurance company. That guy has the bedside manner of a wet mop. In two years, I had been in to see him once for a suspected case of poison ivy. Normally, poison ivy is not that big a deal for most people, but I fall into that category of it being a hugely bad deal. I grit my teeth and get on the exam table while he sits silently looking at my chart. "So, what’s wrong with you?" Nice opening line to make a patient feel at ease. I explain the poison ivy thing, he looks at my face from about 6 feet away and deems me rash-free. Thank you very much, don’t forget your co pay, and buh-bye. That was the first and last time I went to him.
I was relaying this story to a friend who had recently changed doctors herself. She liked him so much that she has her whole family there now and she gave me his number. I waited for a couple of months and then, after deciding to eventually start some kind of fitness/exercise routine, gave his office a call to arrange a physical. No problem said the cheery receptionist and she gave me an appointment at MY convenience. I liked the place already.
I showed up a few minutes early for my appointment in Allentown and took in the new construction smell of the office. Everything was so clean and smudge free and up-to-date. What a change from my last doctor whose office décor was vintage from the first time the 70s were around. The selection of magazines was superior to that of any doctor’s office I’ve been in. Everything from Smithsonian to People was neatly fanned out on several tables next to comfy chairs. I had just picked up a Reader’s Digest when the doctor himself came out to the waiting room to collect me.
Dr. Curtis Byrnes looks like a young version of what you want your doctor to look like. He’s tall with non-gelled hair cut in a regular, neat style. He wears a white jacket and nice slacks, skipping the zany make-the-patient-feel-like-I’m-a-pal tie. And the best part is that he has a good handshake. Not mushy, not soft, but firm and solid with trying to be The Crusher. So far, so good.
We stepped into the first examination room and I immediately told him how I felt about this whole doctor visit. "It’s nothing personal, Dr. Byrnes, but I hate coming to the doctor." I thought it best that I was up front with the new guy. "Well, Rose, so do I." Score another point for Dr. B. He directed me to a chair, rather than the exam table and took a swivel, office-type chair for himself, sitting in front of a computer. The first question he asked was why. Why was I there to see him and why did I want to change doctors, especially since I don’t go that often. I told him bluntly that I wanted a doctor who could treat me and the rest of my family like people rather than insurance payments and that when I called to see the doctor, we would know one another. He nodded and began to ask me the medical history questions that you usually fill out when you check in and that was when it dawned on me that I hadn’t filled any papers out other than the insurance information. He was doing it all himself, listening and nodding, asking for clarification here and there and typing the information into my e-chart himself. Impressive. Especially since he hadn’t asked me to "hop up on the table" while he asked me intensely personal and sometimes embarrassing questions about myself.
When the time came for the table, it was quick and painless. A little listen here, a little look there, one or two pokes and prods and we were done. Not only was it quick and painless, but Dr. Byrnes actually gave me a hand to help me sit up after poking me in the side. The true test was about to begin. He had to draw two vials of blood.
I started to warn him that I can’t deal with the rubber tourniquet thing on my arm when he showed me this little Velcro contraption that didn’t feel weird at all. He asked if I was right or left handed so he could draw from the least used arm, but I told him the best vein was in my writing arm. I popped that beauty out like an experienced heroin addict and he agreed that I do indeed have excellent veins for drawing blood. I must note here that my fear of having blood drawn is only second to my fear of the doctor’s visit itself. I have passed out from having it drawn. Not a pint, a vial for a blood test. Yes, I am a baby and my fear of needles is the reason I cannot go to nursing school. I was just about to ask him to use the tiny pediatric needle to do the draw when he gave me the little gauze and said that he was done. Wow, he was good.
Our meeting was just about over and I was in love. I wanted him to be everyone’s doctor and take care of my whole family, even the ones in North Carolina. He discussed some very delicate issues with me in an intelligent and non-condescending manner and spoke as if we were part of a team with regard to my health. I like that feeling of not being alone in my neuroses.
Welcome to the family, Dr. Byrnes.
Rose McGlew lives in Robbinsville. Her column appears weekly in The Messenger-Press.

