Follow-up visit with the man of few words, Dr. Wibawa, was not as momentous as I thought it might be. This is good, I suppose, in the sense that nothing as portentious as I had expected might be present was found. On blood exams and endoscopy and biopsy, there was nothing earth-shaking. I myself was pretty sure that a Helicobacter pylori infection would be discovered, but not so. On the other hand, I am still sick after a week or the medications he prescribed on the previous visit, with no end in sight. One hopes that something critical, a causation that had heretofore escaped notice, would be identified--an Ah ha! moment when the critical element behind the illness is at last unmasked, exposed, such that it may be specifically targeted. There was no such moment. The doctor merely prescribed more of the medicine he had prescribed last week.
Again, as on the last visit, Dr. Wibawa seemed quietly aloof, almost disinterested, except when it came to the mysterious whereabouts of the endoscopy report.
"Can I see the endoscopy?" he said, holding out his hand without looking up from his papers.
"What? Endoscopy? I don't have it."
He looks up, brow furrowed, as if he had misunderstood me.
"Who has it?"
"Why, you have it!"
He holds out both hands, palms up, glances about the desktop illustratively.
A long discussion ensues about where the endoscopy could possibly be, my own sense of clarity mitigated by a westerner's automatic faith that the doctor is in control, that he has the records, the paperwork, the computer files, all the pertinent documents that have been collected.
In Indonesia, this is not so, and after eight years here I should know that. I do know it. Still, fifty-five years in America has acclimated me to a system and practice that actually works. I'm thinking, My God, doesn't he have all this documentation on the computer right in front of him? Or doesn't he at least have a paper copy in the office or in some clerical filing system up front? But wait, this is not his office per se. It is an office, to be sure, but likely serves as such for any number of people during various hours of the day and night. And what sort of clerical filing room can I be imagining when the entire building is about the size of a studio apartment, and the only thing behind the front desk is a wall?
I have no recollection of having been given the endoscopy report, and therefore I am certain that I do not have it. It is only later, on the way home, that I remember that there are many things about which I have no recollection. I begin to wonder whether I have the report after all? Could it be?
Well, yes, it could, and is. At home, I find the endoscopy report and images in a closet I don't remember putting it in. Kind of embarrassing, actually--but, sadly, par for the course.
Following the kerfuffle regarding the endoscopy report, Dr. Wibawa performes the perfunctory exam--listening to bowel sounds with a stethoscope, tapping out a little drumbeat on my stomach with two fingers--and we're back to the desk, where he scribbles several prescriptions, and then I'm out of there. Anti-climax.
Well, I'll take the medicines, try to watch my diet, continue to avoid coffee as much as possible, continue at failing to stop smoking, and likely see the doctor again whenever the medicines run out.
Next time, I'll remember to bring my endoscopy. Maybe.
Again, as on the last visit, Dr. Wibawa seemed quietly aloof, almost disinterested, except when it came to the mysterious whereabouts of the endoscopy report.
"Can I see the endoscopy?" he said, holding out his hand without looking up from his papers.
"What? Endoscopy? I don't have it."
He looks up, brow furrowed, as if he had misunderstood me.
"Who has it?"
"Why, you have it!"
He holds out both hands, palms up, glances about the desktop illustratively.
A long discussion ensues about where the endoscopy could possibly be, my own sense of clarity mitigated by a westerner's automatic faith that the doctor is in control, that he has the records, the paperwork, the computer files, all the pertinent documents that have been collected.
In Indonesia, this is not so, and after eight years here I should know that. I do know it. Still, fifty-five years in America has acclimated me to a system and practice that actually works. I'm thinking, My God, doesn't he have all this documentation on the computer right in front of him? Or doesn't he at least have a paper copy in the office or in some clerical filing system up front? But wait, this is not his office per se. It is an office, to be sure, but likely serves as such for any number of people during various hours of the day and night. And what sort of clerical filing room can I be imagining when the entire building is about the size of a studio apartment, and the only thing behind the front desk is a wall?
I have no recollection of having been given the endoscopy report, and therefore I am certain that I do not have it. It is only later, on the way home, that I remember that there are many things about which I have no recollection. I begin to wonder whether I have the report after all? Could it be?
Well, yes, it could, and is. At home, I find the endoscopy report and images in a closet I don't remember putting it in. Kind of embarrassing, actually--but, sadly, par for the course.
Following the kerfuffle regarding the endoscopy report, Dr. Wibawa performes the perfunctory exam--listening to bowel sounds with a stethoscope, tapping out a little drumbeat on my stomach with two fingers--and we're back to the desk, where he scribbles several prescriptions, and then I'm out of there. Anti-climax.
Well, I'll take the medicines, try to watch my diet, continue to avoid coffee as much as possible, continue at failing to stop smoking, and likely see the doctor again whenever the medicines run out.
Next time, I'll remember to bring my endoscopy. Maybe.
1 comment:
Did you ever watch the show House? You need him.
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