Oh, the quackery of it all
Written by
Delaine Zody
July 2012
Written by
Delaine Zody
July 2012

For the past few months I have been very involved in the life of a friend whose health, both physically and mentally, has deteriorated. Thrice now I have taken her to the general doctor she sees. Once, at his direction, I took her to a psychiatric hospital, but they wouldn't admit her. If the doctor had only seen her that morning, in his office, he would have known she didn't need to be admitted to a hospital but rather needed some general medical care.


Care, that's the word. Those three times I've been in the doctor's office with her, the doctor sat on one side of the room, my friend on the other, with me next to her. Yesterday, he tried to tell her that she was doing better because she had laughed a couple of times and smiled. He said she looked better than the previous week. 


"Ha," I'm thinking. "how would you know, sitting way over there? You can't see the gunk in her eyes, the red swollen lips, the skin dappled with psoriasis and picked raw."


She shuffles in and out of the office, the beginning of a dowager's hump appearing as she precedes me through the hallway. Yet, the doctor is no where in sight during our coming and going. He okays more drugs, not bothered at all that she has become addicted to the sleep medication. Nor is he bothered that another doctor has prescribed prednisone for the skin ailment. When I question him about side-effects, he waves away my distress. 


"The majority of the population have no problem with an interaction with these drugs."


Through all of this, my friend just sits there, believing whatever he says. As we shuffle through the parking lot, her parting words are, "he's such a kind doctor."



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