Sitting in the waiting room of a doctor’s office is stressful enough without the intrusion of cell phone conversations. While waiting to see my doctor recently, I was subjected to the cellular rant of a young male patient who fancied himself God’s Gift to the World—or, at least to all the women in the waiting room. A captive audience, we were forced to listen as he strutted around the room boasting about a neighbor who offered to help change his dressing. He was convinced that she was no more than a gold-digger after his money. Ranting on about his injury, he spared us none of the graphic details, and those of us forced to listen to him were ready to inflict on him a new round of pain.

Being forced to listen to other patients is bad enough, but I really come unglued when it’s the medical personnel doing the deed. I recently underwent two emergency surgeries within six days. Although I will spare you the nitty-gritty, I want you to know that the second surgery resulted in a large wound requiring home health care. As I lay there in a most compromising position, the attending male nurse leaned over me and began to pack the wound. It was impossible to ignore the blue light blinking on his ear. It was also impossible to run or hide while he chatted mindlessly into the devise as he blithely packed my gut with gauze. 

As difficult as it is for me to tolerate these boors, it is far worse for my 80+-year old mother who suffers from white coat syndrome. Any medical visit, in fact, triggers anxiety in her and propels her blood pressure straight into the stratosphere. Not long ago, during an unpleasant pulmonary function test, my mother’s medical technician stopped the procedure long enough to engage in a protracted personal phone call. That was not nearly as traumatic as the epidural shot that was to follow. Frightened and anxious, she sat on the edge of the hospital bed, her gown open, posterior painted purple with iodine. The doctor had marked the spot and was in the process of injecting the needle when the cell phone rang inside his pocket. Without hesitation, he directed his nurse to remove and answer the phone, and they proceeded to play telephone relay with the nurse acting as interpreter. The doctor’s conversation that couldn’t wait until he finished treating my mother centered on the very urgent topic of his new set of golf clubs.

Emergencies aside, when we wait for upwards of two hours for our 15-minute appointments, is it too much to ask that the doctors give us their undivided attention? Is it too much to expect they put the “care” back in “health care?”