I am someone who goes to the doctor extremely infrequently. I have to stop and think when any form asks me to list my primary physician, and have been known instead to write the name of my kids’ pediatrician. I hate everything about doctor visits, from the mortifying paper gowns worn in super-airconditioned rooms, to the scale, which I swear is preset to be a good 15 pounds heavier than what I know for a fact I weigh. I’m thrilled that I can now get vaccinated at CVS, by someone who doesn’t care WHAT I weigh, and who does not force me to disrobe by the pharmacy counter.
“I just haven’t had time!” is my excuse for not getting a mammogram, colonoscopy, or pap smear. No matter that I somehow have time to do a zillion other things, including writing these daily blog posts! We’re talking “quality” time here, and I deem every minute spent in a medical office building to be “poor quality” time.
But the pandemic has seen the rise in popularity of a trend so dastardly, I just had to type 500 words about it. It’s called “telehealth,” and to me it feels like a home invasion. I can hear my doc chuckling evilly, “She can’t hide from me now! Bwaahhahaa!” Add to that my capricious internet connection, and privacy concerns (I don’t care to have my family overhear me describing my lumps, bumps and bathroom habits). So no, I’m not a fan.
There have, though, been two instances when I did need to “see” someone online.
I developed a weird painful something on one of my fingers and did “go to the doctor” about it. He kept me waiting for 10 minutes, which I guess they just can’t help themselves from doing, in person or no. When at last the practitioner appeared on my computer screen, he merely asked me to show him the finger. In a snap he diagnosed it as a ganglion cyst and predicted it would resolve by itself “within a year or so.” As of now, the pain has diminished, but the cyst is still there. I refuse to revisit the problem, and have made my peace with a protrusion on my hand, for the rest of my life.
I was waaaaayyy overdue to check in with my psychiatrist. The man had the nerve to refuse to refill my antidepressants, just because he hadn’t seen me since early 2019! So, to thwart my nosy family, I whispered a summary of my current mental health. I guess it was just audible enough to satisfy him; I got the prescriptions I needed, and surrendered my credit card info for paying the tele-bill. I promised I’d see him again in person “soon” (2024). But then he told me he had closed his office and was now 100% online! Guess I’ll have to get a hotel room for future confidential therapy sessions.
I’m done. I now declare myself completely telehealthy. Back to my busy busy schedule!