Too much information!

TMI! That’s what my kids will say if they read this post. But I had a medical adventure today, and it taught me something about modern medicine—or maybe the exception to modern medicine. For a little over a month, I’ve had trouble swallowing the handful of pills I take morning and evening. When I mentioned it to my doctor, he immediately said, “You need a swallow test.” The way he described it, it was no big deal—you drink a little barium and they x-ray it going down. He seemed quite sure they’d find a stricture, easily fixed, so he said, with a minor surgical procedure.

There was about a three-week lapse between his order and the actual procedure, and during that lapse I managed to work myself into a snit, imagining all kinds of horrors. I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of the test or the results, but I suspected it was the test. I nearly convinced myself that the whole things was due to allergies (it feels like I have a sore throat)—or may the stress of grieving my brother and my dog. By today I had also convinced myself that swallowing a couple of swigs of barium wasn’t that bad—Jean told me these days it’s vanilla flavored. I will discuss that with her later because when I said that to the tech, she said, “I wish!”

When the tech ushered us into a changing room (first alarm bell went off in my head—why was I changing?) and began firing questions at me, all that hard-won assurance flew out the window. “Could I stand for ten minutes?” Yes, if I had something to hold on to. Could I lie on my stomach? Yes, I suppose so. Could I drink on my stomach? If there was a straw. She kept saying during the questions things like, “The doctor is not going to like this, or “The doctor can stop it at any time.” Jordan encouraged me not to back out after we’ve anticipated this for so long.

We went into the room with the machine, and I visibly paled. It was a flat, upright panel to which the tech attached two handles for me to hold on to. I would have to hold on with one hand and take a drink with the other. Not sounding good. Then it turned out with me standing flat against it, the table would slowly move into a horizontal position—and then minutes later back up to standing. I’ve got enough phobias that gave me real qualms. The tech disappeared, saying she would talk to the doctor. By this time, I was envisioning an ogre of a man, quick to anger.

He emerged from wherever, a perfectly nice, reasonable man. He asked questions, we chatted, and when he asked if I wanted to cancel, I said “Yes.” But then he said, “Let’s try something. Let’s see if we can lower the camera enough to do the studies with you seated.” And that’s what he did—me in my transport chair, which he twisted and turned to get the views he wanted. And the stuff to drink? Not great, but not that bad. I got it all down, and it was only two or three sips of each kind of contrast medium. He was emphatic that he could not see nor study the esophagus, but we were both quite sure the problem is in my throat. And it is: he pinpointed it and recommended further studies.

But what I saw in this physician was adaptability—and I think that’s rare in most medical offices today. He was willing to adjust his methods to meet my needs, and in the end, we got what we wanted—an informative set of x-rays. I thanked both him and the tech profusely as we left. And I, who often long for the olden, golden days of medicine, was comforted.

I wish my brother were here. He’d love this story. That was the kind of medicine he practiced—people-oriented.