The Willing Patient
I have been seeing the same therapist for the past two years or so, and I love her. I pay her $30, and she tells me that whatever I am going through is very normal. It’s a hell of a deal. A few weeks ago, my therapy session was proceeding like it usually did: I showed up five minutes late because I underestimated the amount of time it would take to get from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills. I complained about my workload and gushed about my daughter. I probably pulled out my phone to show a photo of my daughter or my cats.
Then, with only six minutes left in the session, I dropped a bombshell of a revelation. The tone of the session changed, and my therapist started asking rapid-fire questions. She said, “We may have just uncovered the root of all of your anxiety.” And then it was time to go home.
I took a class while I was in college about institutional communication. We did things like transcribe and analyze 911 calls to find patterns. I thought the class was a waste of time, but thirteen years later, I still think of the lecture on how people communicate with their doctors. I was sitting in a large, warm lecture hall on South Campus, and it was the final semester of my senior year. My roommates, Erin and Carrie, were also in the class, and we were drinking sickly-sweet coffee from the vending machine to help us stay awake during the long afternoon lecture. We learned that most people expect their doctor to guess what is wrong with them, and that while a doctor’s appointment usually lasts something like nine minutes, most people do not reveal the most vital information until the final minute of their appointment. For instance, a patient will say that he has not been feeling well, but then sit quietly while his doctor examines him unless the doctor asks him a question. Then, when the doctor is about to leave the exam room, the patient will ask a question like, “is it normal that I’ve been pooping blood?”
Since that class, I have been an unusually helpful patient whenever I go to the doctor. I am observant of my bodily functions, and freely offer this information whether my doctor wants to hear it or not. Sometimes I think I gross my doctor out. I recently asked my primary care physician if she wanted to see a photo I had taken of my phlegm. I thought she might need this information to properly diagnose me. She said no, she did not need to see the photo because she had already listened to my lungs. She was then quiet for a moment, and said, “Well, I suppose I can look at the photo if you went to the trouble of taking it.” I think she could tell I was disappointed.
I am equally forthcoming with my daughter’s pediatrician. I bring photos of brightly-colored spit up and provide great (too much?) detail about sleep schedules, food preferences, etc. My openness and preparation for doctor’s visits is a point of pride for me, to the point that I am always a little surprised and disappointed that no one is grading me.
Responsiveness to questions? A+
Ability to recall color, consistency, and frequency of puke? A+
Willingness to bring photo documentation? A+
Because my openness with doctors is such a point of pride, I was both surprised and disappointed to realize that, when it comes to therapy, I am not a forthcoming patient. I have been expecting my therapist to either guess what is bothering me, or to ask all the right questions to uncover it. I thought I was better than patients everywhere, but I’m not. I’m a blood in the poop patient.