Instant Doctors

The compulsion to counsel happens so often it can be very trying on one's nerves. I used to shut both my ears when it occurred. Oh, no! Here we go again . . .

It begins when someone complains, "I have trouble sleeping sometimes."

Then it comes—an avalanche of advice from instant doctors. If there were four other people in the group, all four would have a fix-it or cure, spoken with authority: "A glass of warm milk will solve it." "Put a pillow under your knees." "Breathe deeply in and out." "Count sheep!"

For years, I've had this chronic ache (I can't recall exactly when it started—okay, roughly after my 40th birthday, when life begun) that won't get off my back. The ache is below the nape and travels around the shoulder blades. It's like a heavy backpack I don't want to carry. On bad days, it makes me a crab; on good days, it makes me less of a crab. Although it bothers me, I never found it alarming enough to warrant seeing a doctor—a real one who went to medical school and passed the doctors' licensure exam.

One day I made the mistake of whining aloud. The onslaught of options from the people around almost buried me.

"Don't eat too much monggo, peanuts, eggplant and chicharon bulaklak." Uric Acid?

"Try a blind masseur . . . hilot . . . reflexologist." Stress?

"Always have a pillow behind your back when you sit." Bad posture?

"I'll give you the Chinese liniment my husband brought from Taiwan . . ." Arthritis?

"Adjust your aircon vent away from your back." Muscle spasm?

"Eat papaya, drink eight glasses of water a day." Constipation?

In contrast, true-blue physicians don't volunteer any opinion. They instead ask questions, but only when consulted or pushed.

"My upper back aches," I say while having dinner with my second son, a newly licensed physician. On cue, he gobbles a forkful of rolled pasta.

I push, "What can I take for my backache?"

"What kind of ache? Throbbing? Dull? Shooting? Unbearable?"

"Somewhere in between..."

"What else do you feel?"

"Just ache—just somewhere-in-between ache."

"How old are you, mom?"

If he were not five-foot-eleven I'd put him on my lap and thwack him good.

Finally, good sense and hypochondria made me consult an internist (ortho something) to whom I graphically dramatized my misery.

"How old are you?" she began by asking the horrific question. After more queries, she prescribed an analgesic, "Only when the pain gets unbearable."

By God's merciful grace it isn't life threatening.

Now that I know why this kind of ache has made my back its dwelling place, I stopped dwelling on self pity. I have also opened my ears. Proverbs 19:20: "Listen to counsel and accept discipline that you may be wise the rest of your days."

I try my instant doctors' advice one at a time. I do get relief—temporarily. But a series of momentary relief adds up to a number of good days.

Today, here I am—also compelled to give unsolicited advice to anyone who shows signs of carrying a similar invisible backpack. I have joined the roster of instant doctors. It's because I know exactly how heavy the load can be and I don't wish it on them. Maybe real doctors are trained to cure, but instant doctors are born to care.

Compulsive health counselors are as many as there are friends and caring others. I believe they are the Lord's vessels of grace to help ease our pain. They don't unnerve me anymore, they rev me up. Once in a while, I even whine aloud on purpose just to fish for new relief ideas.

And there are!

If you don't believe me, try whining aloud sometime.

copyright © 2002 by Grace D. Chong