Crying Wolf!

 

Me in the dentist's chair

Years ago, when I was young and green, I dated a man who used to tell me he was “trying to take a cold.” I always wanted to tell him not to try so hard, and maybe he wouldn’t get that cold. Today I have to eat those words: I am trying to develop a toothache, or maybe what I want to say is I’m hoping a toothache won’t develop.

I woke this morning with a swollen jaw in the lower part of the left side of my face. Nothing hurt, but it felt stiff. Over the morning the stiffness went away but I have a tender spot on my jawbone, and if I make a moue just right, I feel a twinge or tightness (see, I’ve spent too much time with Irene, and I’m now sprinkling my language with French). So the dentist is on my list for tomorrow, first thing in the morning.

For one who was raised to take a positive attitude toward health, I have in recent years suffered more than my share of the joys of aging—a hip joint that simply disappeared, atrial fibrillation, an implanted lens that broke loose and wandered around my eye, kidney failure. In each instance, I waited so long to say I thought something was wrong that the problem became much worse, and my Stoic attitude became the subject of concern from my doctor and my family. My brother spoke to me about it, said my kids had spoken to him.

“But you know why I’m that way,” I said. “Mom raised us not to complain over little things.” He agreed it was true but faulted my failure to distinguish little things from major problems. She taught us the story of the little boy who cried “Wolf!” so often that when he did spy a wolf, no one believed him. As a doctor’s wife, Mom knew how impatient doctors get with people who take every small pain as a reason to run to the doctor. Being doctors’ kids, we were expected to do better. Mom’s philosophy was, “It will be better in the morning,” and I grew up believing that.

Today, we are torn by two contradictory philosophies: the school that advocates patient responsibility urges us to question our physicians, not to accept treatment or prognosis blindly, seek a second opinion when necessary. Ultimately, we are responsible for our own health. Ah, but then, today we have the folks—particularly politicians—who think they know as much as doctors, most of whom have had a minimum of eight years medical training.

This is of course particularly evident with the anti-vaxx people who distrust the vaccine despite lengthy lab trials followed by clinical trials and now by apparently successful use in a huge segment of the population. These same people, with what some call a Facebook medical degree, believe in hydroxychloroquine or ivermectin. Some believe in the medial impossibility of the implantation of tracking devices, cameras, etc. through that tiny needle. But there are also those who deny the medical realities of the abortion debate and, presumably, believe all pregnancies left to complete the nine-month term naturally result in a happy baby and a healthy mother. They brush aside medical complications that are too frequent and of great concern.

We all know people who seem to “doctor up,” spending much of their lives in doctor’s offices. Where do you draw that line? When can you treat yourself and when do you need medical advice? How do you know when the doctor is right? Is your questioning based on an intellectual need to know or a blind belief from your childhood, your church, your uncle who always knew best?

I’ll be darned if I know, but I do know I’m calling the dentist in the morning.