An Amish man came in with a chief complaint of having his “right ear blocked for two years.” He had a big piece of cotton stuck in the ear after trying “sweet oil” and other natural remedies. I checked the ear and it was indeed packed with cotton and wax. After my nurse did extensive lavage, I rechecked the canal and found it clear. As I handed him the bill he said, “Doctor, can I have my cotton ball back?” I handed it to him and asked, “What do you want it for?” He responded, “Well, everything is so loud now.” Guess I'll be seeing him back in a couple of years.
Another time I came in after hours on a weekend to sew up a seven-year-old Amish child. He had cut himself in the forehead playing with sharp and dangerous farm implements. The father brought him along with three other children. I soon figured out that the “yes, we are patients in your practice” over the phone actually meant “we go to the other doc up the road, but he won't come in on weekends.” With a sigh, I had the father fill out the patient information sheet while I set up the suture tray.
I looked at the sheet and said, “Okay … Jacob, hop up on the table and let's take a look.” This kid was incredibly stoic. Not a flinch when I said, “Okay, Jacob, now you'll feel a bee sting as I numb you up.” Jacob never moved a muscle or said a word. I fixed him without a problem and told dad to call the office for a suture removal appointment in five days.
Seventeen days later, Mom brings him back in. The front desk can't find his chart anywhere. After ten minutes of searching in vain, I tell my staff to just put him in a room. I figured I would take his sutures out and find the chart later. As I am struggling to extract my now completely buried handiwork from his forehead (he's as stoic and wordless as ever), I say, “Sorry, Jacob, I know that this may hurt a little …” Mom cuts me off and with a big smile says, “Oh! It wondered me why you didn't find the record of him! This is Amos, not Jacob. My husband always gets them mixed!”
Another time I came in after hours on a weekend to sew up a seven-year-old Amish child. He had cut himself in the forehead playing with sharp and dangerous farm implements. The father brought him along with three other children. I soon figured out that the “yes, we are patients in your practice” over the phone actually meant “we go to the other doc up the road, but he won't come in on weekends.” With a sigh, I had the father fill out the patient information sheet while I set up the suture tray.
I looked at the sheet and said, “Okay … Jacob, hop up on the table and let's take a look.” This kid was incredibly stoic. Not a flinch when I said, “Okay, Jacob, now you'll feel a bee sting as I numb you up.” Jacob never moved a muscle or said a word. I fixed him without a problem and told dad to call the office for a suture removal appointment in five days.
Seventeen days later, Mom brings him back in. The front desk can't find his chart anywhere. After ten minutes of searching in vain, I tell my staff to just put him in a room. I figured I would take his sutures out and find the chart later. As I am struggling to extract my now completely buried handiwork from his forehead (he's as stoic and wordless as ever), I say, “Sorry, Jacob, I know that this may hurt a little …” Mom cuts me off and with a big smile says, “Oh! It wondered me why you didn't find the record of him! This is Amos, not Jacob. My husband always gets them mixed!”
No comments:
Post a Comment