COMMENTARY

During these past two years and more, doctors and other health care workers have played a vital and leading part in our surviving the pandemic. They have been heroic in their efforts to keep us safe and healthy in trying times. They are exhausted and frustrated as they persevere. But they are not infallible, and as humans ourselves, we cannot help venting our own frustrations. Read on.

Some doctors I have known

By Douglas Parker

I’ve known a few – quite a few actually. It’s axiomatic: the older you get, the more docs you know. Not that you want to, any more than you want to participate in competitive axe throwing, sign up for clog dancing lessons or shop at Costco on a Saturday afternoon. But most times you have no choice. Your body establishes the rules and, like Putin, it’s an autocrat.

I need to say right off that my GP is great. Above rubies, as Proverbs says; top drawer, the ne plus ultra of doctors. He listens, he’s never late, he actually looks at me – as a primary care doc, he works to take care of me. I couldn’t ask for more.

The Hippocratic oath requires doctors to “do no harm.” It doesn’t require them to be nice or considerate, but it also doesn’t enjoin them not to be nice or considerate. Some behave as if it does. A patient is more than ailment attached to a life form. Patients are people and deserve to be treated as such, especially when they might be at their most vulnerable.

Let’s start with waiting. In my experience, waiting to see a doctor can be a challenge – in the waiting room amidst a passel of old magazines and people with ailments, a choir of bodily atonal suppliants hoping to be seen and heard in a timely fashion by knowledgeable professionals who can help them return to a state of comforting homeostasis. That’s the ideal; that’s what you want to happen. But when you sit endlessly waiting, you understand why they call it a waiting room. It requires patience; maybe that’s why those compelled to sit there are called patients.

I saw a specialist a while ago. A nurse leads me to the doctor’s office, takes my particulars plus blood pressure, smiles and says “the doctor will be with you soon.” She leaves and closes the door. I look around the office, noticing various medical things that I can’t identify. There’s also a bed.

Thirty minutes into my appointment, nothing has happened although things seem to be happening outside the closed door. I hear a gaggle of voices; someone speaking on the phone, male and female voices, some laughing, a bit of jollity, the sound of a few feet shuffling by. It’s a clinic after all. The place seems busy. A good sign, I think. I know I can be a patient patient; I can wait. After all, it’s important that I’m here.

An hour later, without book or cell phone to divert me, I sit. I find entertainment and solace looking out the window at a parking lot. Cars come and go. I notice the beginnings of the gloaming.

A long hour later, the crepuscular has ceded ground to a dark sky. The parking lot has disappeared, swallowed by the dark. It’s now five o’clock. I’ve been sitting behind this closed door for two hours waiting for the doctor. I’m beginning to feel concerned. However, because I am a suppliant, I don’t want to make waves. Nothing worse than annoying the doctor by being too demanding, by wondering where the hell he is. I know I don’t hold any cards.

As time passes, I no longer hear any voices. Disturbing. Taking Lady Macbeth’s advice, I screw my courage to the sticking place and dare to open the door, bravery sired by fear. Some lights have been shut off, rendering the reception area subfusc. I see no one but a man with a broom sweeping up. “They’ve forgotten about me,” I think, panic-stricken, not angry yet but alarmed. As I’m about to make a perplexed departure, the doctor I’m supposed to see walks by, getting ready to call it a day. He seems surprised, asks what I want and when I tell him, he tells me to go back into his office. I obey, a bit hangdog. He arrives; he offers no by-your-leave, no apology, no “I’m sorry.” Strangely, it is I who feels guilty.

I have a friend who had a similar experience with her doctor, even worse than mine. She shows up for her appointment and is left sitting for two hours without seeing the doc. Fed up, she goes home. A few days later, she receives a bill in the mail from her doctor for a missed appointment! I think of this caregiver as Dr. Moxie.

And then there’s the doctor who won’t refill a prescription you’ve been on since time immemorial until he or she sees you. And the other type who only allows you to raise one health issue per appointment. It’s either your nagging cough or that dreadful pain in your right knee. Not both; you choose. Man is condemned to freedom, as the existentialists claim.

And what about the doctor who rushes you through your appointment as if the building’s on fire or he is hurrying to catch a bus?

And finally there’s the doctor who seems to think you’re not there, even though you’re pretty certain you are. I’ve had this experience too. Maybe he doesn’t look at me because he’s busy looking at his computer screen typing something or other, even though I haven’t said much. Always looking on the bright side, I assume this doc is busy studying my chart. Maybe I wonder why this doc couldn’t have done his homework, taken five minutes to find out about me before I sit there wondering if he’s playing an updated version of Donkey-Kong or Pac Man.

He asks me how I am. I begin to tell him. He continues to watch his computer screen. Rather than interrupting him, I stop talking. He says “I’m listening,” still watching the screen, and so I continue. And he still doesn’t look my way. Have I got something between my teeth, something hanging from my nose, a snaggle tooth that displeases him? Should I tempt fate and ask this guy, “why aren’t you looking at me when I’m talking to you?” Common sense kicks in, and I resist the temptation to be what he might regard as impertinent. After all, I’m the suppliant, pulling my forelock, needing his help. The last thing I want to do is piss off this doctor, risking an obsidian stare or worse.

Despite the above, I know there are wonderful doctors in Ottawa, and they far outnumber the very few who sometimes seem to treat the patient but not the person. If you’re pleased with your doctor and wonder how you might show it, consider making a donation in his or her name to the Ottawa Hospital’s Guardian Angel Program. It’s a tangible way of saying thank you to your doctor for the care she or he provides.

We should never take our doctors for granted. They need our attention as we need theirs.

Douglas Parker is a 30-year Glebe resident with an interest in English Reformation literature, history and theology, and a penchant for wry commentary on life in the here and now.

SEPTEMBER 2022 POETRY

QUARTER

Hello, welcome. farewell, adieu.

In keeping with the theme of “hello, farewell,” this month Poetry Quarter contributors sent us poems that illuminate arrivals or departures, either physical or metaphorical, or that explore new beginnings or close chapters. They have shared their private or public moments of coming and going, starting and ending. Enjoy!

The Glebe Report’s Poetry Quarter is curated by poet, author and educator JC Sulzenko.

Meditation

Adrienne Stevenson

Awaiting his arrival I muse on lotus blossoms in still pools. In dreams

I watch herons stalk at the pond’s reedy edge. A kingfisher spears a frog.

My heart strives for freedom. Others insist it remain chained.

Change

Mila Fleming-Pijuan, Grade 7

I fear the change, inevitable change The evolution and the frequent exchange I live through the memories of the recent past I dread the future since nothing will last

The painful change, the changing pain Where nothing will ever stay the same Every day of my life, every moment I share Every person I like will not always be there

But then I think, and I see the good The good in change, that should be understood In with the new and out with the old I see now that change can also be gold

And onto the past, we can still hold But we should let the next chapter be told A brand new day, a great new start And another chance to heal my heart

Two Years

Helen Johansen

We arrived in Ottawa at night in ‘73 The airport tarmac was wide, white, wind-driven, winter cold. We laughed. Where the hell were we! I clutched a wide, straw sunhat, too big for my bag. Oh well, your Fellowship was only two years.

Next morning, we hit the January sidewalk sales. Our winter Aussie gear just didn’t cut the weather here. A sheepskin coat for me, down for you. Then we filled a small apartment with second-hands and sale goods. A Sears rug riot got us a thin, five-dollar 9x12 rug. Oh well, we were only staying for two years.

By Summer, I had a job, too. Then I won a position with the Feds. New winters came and went… and came and went again. Before one knew it …We had a house. The Sears’ rug became an underlay. Our son was born Canadian. And when we remember that we were only staying for two years, we laugh.

Backtracking

Maureen Korp

What did we agree? Stay in touch, call it a night empty the glass, once lovers, still friends. . . or, so we said we’d be.

Park Bench

Emma Schuster

I hope when I go, Through death or distance, My loved ones remember me. Not in the sense of time immemorial, Not in the way of history books, But in the way of park benches; Small plaques Detailing one of my peculiarities, One Of my multitudes.

Naming the Car

Michelle Desbarats

In naming the car, as our mother did, there was a member of the family nearby. When my mother, at midnight, pushed me outside, her arms needing to push something into submission. I fought her of course, so she could still feel her strength. Then curled up on the faux leather of the back seat. Perhaps an old blanket from the beach still warm. Morning would be, in summer, the coming of light to the sky in the chestnut tree. Opening the front door to the scent of coffee and toast. And a world that had somehow been cleansed overnight.

“The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended…” The Merchant of Venice Act 5, scene 1.

Corvus

David Leduc

The dead crow rested its wing on the curb like a regular at the local tavern. He had sung his last tale and now awaited the rebuttal. His iridescent jacket torn and frayed, His eyes still fixed on the last image he saw.

Soon this funeral home apparel will be cleaned. The white scissor dinosaur frame remains to tell a story.

En route–New Year’s Eve at Sea

Betty Warrington-Kearsley

Must Time separate us from year to year? Create yet another turning point in life? As oceans now distance my near and dear, cleave my heart with its well-whet knife? How long before these midnight waves will rise to cool this blood Arabian night? My tortuous mind so very nearly breaks in clutched attempts to save the fading sight. But Time, sure as truth, draws also nearer what has been severed, with reasons clearer. Though stormy waters toss, part and close beyond the stern, and cresting waves nose and surf the ocean shelf, their fathomed sand at depth lies unperturbed, linking land to land.