Kishore Singh: The house the doctor built

Hospitals now resemble luxury hotels and smell of spray instead of spirit, but their occupants haven’t changed all that much. The other day, having been forced into seeing a doctor, I’d signed up for an examination. The physician I’d been assigned reminded me of my wife’s yoga instructor, being of a talkative nature. Had I seen the news? Wasn’t the weather terrible? Did I like his jacket, his sister-in-law had just sent it from London? Was I well? “Clearly not,” I suggested, “else I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company.” Ignoring the sarcasm, or perhaps suspecting that I admired the jacket a trifle less than him, he switched to small talk about what I did, where I lived, what I read, slipping in that he enjoyed travelling, loved the movies, and, really, “who eats sushi?”
 

Sensing his disinclination to seek the reason for my appointment, I told him I hoped that once we were through with our social tête-à-tête, that he’d find the time to hazard what might ail me. Would he, perhaps, like to hear about my symptoms and their history? “Who ever knows about the plumbing or wiring in a house till there is a problem,” he philosophised, not an altogether reassuring note in a doctor. Still? With a sigh, he wrote down an extremely long list of tests that he required done before expressing an opinion. “I could admit you,” he said hopefully, an offer I declined, not being terribly fond of garrulous people who would have you listen, no matter what.

Was there nothing to be done then? “I could write you some medicines,” he suggested hopefully. Would that take care of the problem? “I won’t know about any problem till the test results come in,” he pointed out logically. Holding the list of placebo medicines in my hand, I asked about any restrictions he might want to suggest. He shrugged, “We’ll wait for the results.” “So, I can eat what I normally eat?” “No salt,” he reprimanded. I remembered we were having chicken for dinner. “No non-vegetarian either,” he added for good measure. “Er, a drink or two?” “No drinks,” he was firm. Could I at least go for my walks? “No exercise,” he cautioned. What if I couldn’t get the tests done immediately, I was busy? “No waiting,” he refused to be budged.

He was still talking about the body and its resemblance to a house when I left him to explain the many secrets its doors and windows hid to his next patient. At the chemist’s shop in the lobby, the assistant enquired about the quantity of pills I required. I explained that the doctor hadn’t mentioned any period. “That’ll be the specialist,” he nodded, “You’ll need medicines for one week,” clearly used to the consultant’s eccentricities.

The next morning, I visited a laboratory to check if they could hurry up with the tests that the good doctor had requested. “These you need to do pre-fasting,” I was told, “those others are after breakfast, come back tomorrow.” I’d also need a few hours to get them done, I was informed. As for other tests, lamentably they were required to be done elsewhere, and some needed an appointment across town. I’m regretting having been talked into signing up for a check-up. Sometimes, it’s best to let the plumbing do its thing, and the windows exist as they’ve always done. Now that I’ve let myself in, I no longer have the key to walk out of the house the doctor just built.