Copyright (c) 1997

                    DOC, NO MORE FAVORS, PLEASE...
                         by Randall A. Hahn
           
Everyone has a basic need to feel appreciated, particularly
at their job/place of business since this is where most people
spend most of their adult waking hours, a very understandable 
need indeed. Some jobs, however, are not the type that are going 
to generate a great deal of appreciation on the part of the service 
recipient. The medical field is not exempt from this sentiment (how 
happy are you after most dentist visits, and how often do you praise
him/her for their efforts?). My recent experience is that neither 
are some surgeons exempt. 

What has surprised me most is that while the vast majority of the 
dentists I have dealt with have accepted it as natural that patients
are NOT going to shower them with praise for whatever level of pain
was induced over the course of treatment, surgeons and their supporting
staff don't apparently share this wisdom.

In the midst of a recent bout with a sinus infection (an annual event) 
coupled with a high speed collision with an individual weighing about 
a hundred pounds more than I do, I thought it to be in my best 
interests to consult my physician, as I was having some difficulty 
drawing a deep breath. My envisionment of what was about to trans-
pire was that he would give me a prescription for antibiotics to
take care of the sinus infection, and likely a prescription for an
anti-inflammatory and/or pain pills for the rib/lining damage. I
was slightly incorrect.

The end result of what did occur was that I spent the ensuing eight
days in the hospital and had part of a lung removed, apparently due to
complications from a disease I never knew I had. By the end of this 
time period, I already had determined that my beloved surgeon and I 
were NOT destined to be friends, as beyond the fact that (at least in 
my opinion) he chose poor times to take a weekend off (cost me two
extra days in the hospital as the covering physician didn't want to
take responsibility for releasing me), he had the bedside manner of
Freddie Krueger.

Upon returning to the hospital, three days after original release/escape,
to have a couple of stitches removed, it became directly apparent to
me that Dr. Mengele had infected his support staff with his charming
ways, as the technician that was delegated the thrill of removing the
aforementioned sutures went fishing for praise, it being obvious to
him (given the appearance of the surgical area) that they had done
an "excellent job", and had "vastly improved my outlook for quality
of life". I beg to differ.

I felt obliged to impart on the poor guy, in no uncertain terms, that
upon entering the hospital I was suffering from two (and ONLY two) 
basic problems:

1) Sinus Infection. I WAS right about this. I have had enough of them.

2) Shortness of breath.

Conversely, at the time of our "conversation", things I had to whine
about included (but were not restricted to):

1) I STILL have the damned sinus infection. Over the course of my
   hospital stay, this was never dealt with.

2) I cannot draw a deep breath yet. Little Mr. Stitch-guy was more than 
   happy to assure me that "Hey, not for the same reason, though!". Made
   me feel SOOOOO much better.

3) The right side of my chest is now numb. OK, so they took out part of 
   my right lung. Did I mention that they went in through the BACK?

4) They went in through the back. Now I know I have mentioned it. Left
   about an eight-inch incision line across my shoulder. Used staples,
   stitches and Super Glue to take care of the holes (guess there was a
   close-out sale at the local Ace Hardware Store). End result? I can
   raise my right arm about six inches from my side, but it won't move
   forwards or backwards.

5) They gave me several shots of medicine designed to thin my blood.
   These injections were given around my navel. I now have this really
   cute ring of bruises that would make Ozzie Osbourne jealous.

6) Last but far from least, prior to surgery, I had to answer the 
   standard set of questions about medicinal allergies. I gamely
   answered that, to the best of my knowledge, I was allergic to nothing.
   Dr. Mengele apparently felt obliged to prove otherwise. We NOW know
   that I am allergic to Morphine (hives), Demerol (hives, burnt veins
   and a rash that itched really badly), Percoset (hives, burnt veins,
   itchy rash partially topped with burnt skin that felt obliged to fall
   off) and Darvocet (hives, burnt veins, itchy rash partially topped
   with dry-roasted skin, side order of vomiting). Lent a whole new
   meaning to the term "no skin off my ass", if you get my drift.

The response from Little Mr. Stitch-guy? "You can go now". I trust 
he didn't mean to work. Dr. Mengele said no work until further notice.
This really didn't get the desired response from me, I think. After all,
I am a right-handed auto mechanic. Like, just totally wasn't happenin',
dude.

Little Mr. Stitch-guy ushered me out with great haste. I got my point
across, though. Told him to tell Dr. Mengele that the Thank You card
might be late, but if it would make him feel better, he could call down
and try to arrange to have me mugged on the way to the taxi-cab. After
all, it would fit in with the treatment I had received to date, and
keep the walk from being such a bore.

He'd probably try to bill me for THAT too.

                                   END