How to talk to your doctor
This is not medical advice.
Sometimes the medical industry labels you as a “poor historian.” If this is in your note, it means that you were not providing a coherent story of why you are in pain, or what happened, or why you are at the doctor’s office.
It’s likely that you came in upset at your insurance, the reams of paperwork that you had to fill out, the grumpy front office chick, the 30 minute wait, etc.
Or maybe you’re excited to see Dr Lexus, and are telling them about the bunion on your foot (not why you’re here), showing cell pics of your cute little pomeranian, talking about your niece who wants to be a doctor, talking about your last trip to Florida, talking on your phone, and how much your spouse is wrong about their medical problems, and they won’t listen to you.
They have 15 minutes
I get it. With the amount of money you are paying, you deserve an hour of their undivided attention. But that is not reality. It is supply and demand.
In the doctor’s defense, they have 15 minutes to try and figure out what’s wrong with you. They might work 60 hours per week, sometimes going in at 2am for a car accident, they are interrupted by bimbo pharmacy reps, HR came to “talk” about the offhand sarcastic joke they made about one of the aides’ hair color, and their spouse is wondering when if ever, they will come home to dinner, “on time.”
Plan what you need to say
They need to know what’s going on, in order to be able to help you. We get 2 kinds of patients in therapy.
My 15 years old son answers the doctor with, “yeah”, and “no.” Luckily I’m there to offer some brief context, “yes, he’s walking better, and performing these exercises.”
Before you arrive, think of the most coherent way that you can tell the doctor what is wrong. Was this an accident? Did you fall? Where is the pain, and how often?
I don’t like the pain scale, but they are likely going to ask you to assign a number to your pain. Remember, there is no 11, and 10 mean you’re dying. We see people with terminal cancer and/or who live in wheelchairs. 8/10 pain better be severe.
I love to talk about your dog
I’m lucky. I get to see you for hours. I want to hear about your dog, and niece, and how wrong your spouse is.
There’s nothing worse than seeing the teenagers like my son, who don’t want to talk at all.
I’ve gotten really good at interrupting you, to tell you what the next exercise is. But I want to keep hearing the stories. So long as we’re still getting the work done.