What's That Sound In The Distance? Wild Horses? Zebras?

Close Encounters with Dr. Dickhead

Photo by Jason Hafso on Unsplash

The Incident

The “incident” that brought things to a head in October of 2022 involved Mr. J driving aimlessly for two hours when he should have been at a professional appointment – where he was the professional.  It was fairly dramatic.  When I finally tracked him down and got him to the emergency room, he was confidently reporting Trump was president, and that the date was November of 1969.  Clearly, something was wrong. . . A flurry of tests and scans ensued.  After several hours, a group of medical professionals gathered to inform us of the results.  “Mr. J has had a stroke,” they said.  I was so. Damned. Relieved.  A stroke has a protocol.  A stroke is something one can recover from.  A stroke is a known, manageable quantity. 

But as I am still processing this information, Dr. Dickhead (not his real name) strode into our small room in the ER.  “It’s not a stroke,” he declared.  “I’ve already called the radiologist and told him to re-write his report.”  He tossed Mr. J’s file on the counter for emphasis.  It was like the air went out of the room.  I’m not sure if it was the news itself, or Dr. Dickhead’s dismissive manner that had a greater impact on all of us.  The attending, the nurses, and other medical professionals, looked at the floor, their cuticles, their phones, anything to avoid looking at Dr. Dickhead. 

The Question

After his pronouncement, Dr. Dickhead strode out of the room.  There was stunned silence.  About a heartbeat went by, and then I said, “I went to graduate school with people like him.  Just because he is a bully doesn’t mean he is right.”  All professionals in the room worked very hard to avoid eye contact with me and each other.  There was nothing to say.  Dr. Dickhead was the neurologist on call, and he had made the call.  No stroke diagnosis for Mr. J.  No treatment.  No cure. 

The Dismissal

Dr. Dickhead declared Mr. J should be discharged, with additional testing to follow on an outpatient basis.  I was dubious about the wisdom of this.  And then, the fly in the ointment. Mr. J was supposed to get dressed.  The problem was, Mr. J’s definition of “get dressed” involved wandering out of our room in the ER and into the general hub of things.  I stopped him three times.  “Babe,” I said.  “You are supposed to be putting on your pants.”  “I am putting on my pants,” he said, as he wandered towards the door of our room in his hospital gown.  After the third round of this, I left the room and found the medical professionals (not Dr. Dickhead, who had long since returned to from whence he came).  “He can’t get dressed,” I said.  “He doesn’t know how to put on his pants.”  This got us a hospital bed.

Looking for Zebras 

“When you hear hooves, look for horses.  But once the horses have been eliminated, look for zebras.”  A medical professional told me this as they ran test after test after test.  For the next three days, Mr. J was subjected to every test known to man – except a PET scan.  Because, apparently, they don’t “do” PET scans at the hospital.  Dr. Dickhead assured us we would have a PET scan appointment within a week of discharge.  Surprise!  Didn’t happen.  I had to beg, scream, and threaten legal action to get that PET scan.  Which happened in December.  We didn’t get to see Dr. Dickhead to review the results for a month.  Of course, Mr. J’s test results were posted the Friday before our Monday appointment, so I had all weekend to google his preliminary diagnosis of degenerative brain disease.  Not good.

Medical Advice?

“You need to cancel all the credit cards in his name,” Dr. Dickhead said with authority.  “Why,” I asked.  Dr. Dickhead looked at the floor, “Hookers,” he said.  “Hookers?” I asked.  There was a long pregnant pause.  “Sometimes,” Dr. Dickhead said, “People with this disease order hookers to come to the house.”  We sat in silence, letting this information sink in.  And if that wasn’t enough, Dr. Dickhead added, “He’ll be in a home by August.”  Talk about a gut punch.  Of course, I highly doubt that Dr. Dickhead knows that “homes” require private pay.  At $10,000 a month, there will be no “home” for Mr. J.  (Sidebar: the United States’ approach to health care is appalling.)  But I digress.

Dr. Dickhead gave us the website that deals with this illness and sent us on our way.  “Come back in six months,” he said.

Not on your life, Dr. Dickhead.  Not on your life.