I think everyone has had his or her share of god-awful doctor visits. For most people, these chaotic experiences rarely occur. For others (such as myself) it happens at nearly every dreaded appointment — from the moment I set foot into the purgatorial waiting room to the second I flee from the sanitized hell.
NSU has a clinic where many students, pursuing medical careers as nurses and physicians, engage in practical experience. This sounds like an excellent source of learning, right? Well, for those who need vital medical attention this may not always be a good thing.
Now, I’m not trying to knock our students and their hard work in becoming nurses, doctors or other medical professionals, but I must say that when I need a “doctor,” I would prefer if he or she didn’t Google my symptoms and cross their fingers in hopes that a good result pops up (that actually happened to me). Call me crazy, but that’s kind of a bad sign for a timid patient like me. Sure, maybe that was a fluke, a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence. Right?
Ladies, have you ever noticed how long it takes to book an OB/GYN appointment at this clinic? Seriously, it’s like booking an exotic getaway to an exclusive island destination. You’d think after being on the wait-list for two months I’d get VIP treatment and maybe some tropical sangria. You can imagine, after months of waiting for this pivotal appointment, I could barely contain my anticipation of finally being able to meet with a professional who could address my concerns, only to have them run out of the room in the middle of my diagnosis. What the heck? Please explain to me why my doctor needed to address another patient and leave me hanging? Ok, ok, so the patient was going into labor, but come on, I waited MONTHS for this appointment. Not to mention that this particular doctor had previous knowledge that this pregnant woman would be calling for them, so why not send me over to another less-hassled physician rather than have me clueless as to the state my health? The “icing-on–the–cake” factor was that it would be another month before I could schedule a follow-up appointment (insert obscenities here). So, rather than chase down my doctor through the sanitized, glossy corridors, I chose to remain hopeful.
Maybe I’m just a target of the universe or a victim of circumstance. Or, maybe I should’ve just lived off campus that year. I could have avoided these fantastic follow-up visits, which included being provided the wrong medication (twice), having my arm severely bruised from crappy blood–drawing, being told to drop 10lbs from an obese doctor, and being offered a pap smear with a wink from a male physician (no, I did not accept it).
I have not been back to the clinic since. I don’t plan to and I do not suggest that anyone stop going to it. I say this because, as tedious as these experiences have been (to the point of traumatizing I might add), they have also been quite fascinating, and looking back on it — even hilarious. I have had my share of doctors-in-training, but I accept that everyone must start somewhere. With that notion, I am just thankful and know that someday, some brilliant NSU physician will look back and think, “Did I do that?” and die of embarrassment.
