Why Me?
Several weeks ago I found myself face to face with the bourbon-soaked palate of a fellow traveler as I skooched my way past his horn-rimmed glasses and wearied but jubilant façade to my middle seat. I crammed my 200+lb frame into my economy-sized seat and attempted to get lost in the passionate throws of pathology when I was promptly engaged in conversation with my horn-rimmed-framed friend. He was an exceptionally well-dressed man of mild stature with silver hair. Obviously well-versed in the art of dress, he was doffed in a plum-colored shirt that was tailored to his specific build, fitted flat-front charcoal trousers and burgundy wingtips. He spoke with a slight Bayou twang that he’d obviously tried to reinvent over the years, and flighty gestures that seemed playful yet added subtle emphasis to his discourse. Even though I desperately needed to bury my face in my cancer chapter, I really enjoyed talking to this man.
Our conversation ranged just about everywhere one could imagine. Between his sips of bourbon and Coke the man and I covered a variety of popular topics to include his fruitful work as a company CFO, the political landscape as it relates to the upcoming election, fine dinnerware, and hemorrhoids. One might understandably state that the latter two aforementioned topics of conversation are not among those that new acquaintances normally discuss. Of the two, the former focus merely confirmed by suspicion that this man was in fact, a homosexual. Now I’m not one to propagate stereotypes, however, this well-dressed, handsy-talking male individual knew way too much about dishes and couture to not invite my internal questioning. The latter topic was unequivocally provoked by my status as a medical student. My fellow traveler upon noticing my book and realizing that I am a student of medicine wanted to discuss the particularly touchy subject of hemorrhoids. The conversation started off like this:
Him: “Let’s see, you’re reading ‘Pathologic Basis of Disease’, what are you a medical student or something.”
Me: “Why yes I am.”
Him: “Oooh, so I have this friend who has hemorrhoids, what does it say in there about that?”
At this point I’m thinking to myself, “Man I wish someone would’ve told me I have a sign that says ‘world’s biggest idiot’ over my head because that’s what he must think of me if he thinks I’m going to fall for that crap.”
Me: “I don’t know what’s in the book, but I know that you can get them a couple ways. One way is by straining too much on the toilet. Another is getting pregnant, or people with cirrhotic livers get can get them.”
Him: “Oh, what’s a cirrhotic liver?”
Me: “A cirrhotic is like another way of saying that the liver is scarred.”
Him: “Oh, how does that happen?”
Me: “Well in the US, people get it because they drink too much.”
At this point in the conversation, my well-dressed travelling companion made the comment that transformed our relationship from one that remains cordial and polite to one that doesn’t normally exist between people that only met one hour prior to said conversation. For a little over a year my professors have been telling me that when people find out you’re a doctor they’ll start telling you things that they won’t even admit to themselves. Well I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to be a doctor to realize that particular truth.
This man’s friend with hemorrhoids was of course actually him, and he proceeded to tell me the intimate details of his case. Apparently his doctor told him that his hemorrhoids would require surgery, and that along with surgery he needed to undergo a serious change in lifestyle, and no I’m talking about any of his extracurricular activities that would relate to him being a homosexual. Almost instantly it became clear to me, this guy was probably an alcoholic (heck he hadn’t stopped drinking from the moment we got on the plane) and he probably already had a grossly cirrhotic liver…not a good thing. Unfortunately he made the mistake of asking a person who has very little clinical experience and who currently spends all of his time memorizing facts about disease what he thinks about his case, and that person was me. So I told him what I thought.
I explained that for all intents and purposes, you need a liver to live (hello-o, they call it a live-r!), and a totally scarred liver that doesn’t work is not compatible with life, or at least life on Earth. My addition that people with this condition either need new livers or they die was met with a lengthy and very awkward silence. Eventually he retorted, “So you’re the kind of person that enjoys inflicting pain.”
So I’m sitting there realizing that I told this guy he has a good chance of dying if he doesn’t stop doing something he obviously enjoys very much. At first I felt really bad about it and wished I could take it back, but then I realized I didn’t really tell this guy something he doesn’t already know. His doctor already told him he needed to stop drinking. Furthermore he’s already drunk himself to a point where he needs surgery in one of the most uncomfortable places a surgeon can take a scalpel to. Consequently, this particular flight was spent learning something that will be a lot more beneficial to me in the long run versus cramming more medical facts in my brain: sometimes people need to hear the brutal truth to finally make a change that’ll do them some good.
¶ 10:45 AM 0 comments
