Finally A Positive Story About a Doctor

It's like Edgar Allen Poe's been working overtime.

In my travels, I hear more and more horror stories from friends about their recent experiences with doctors. Symptoms being ignored for months. Mis-diagnoses that ultimately resulted in surgery. Non-diagnoses that ultimately resulted in surgery. You name it. I've heard it. Makes you long for the days of Marcus Welby.

One of the problems, beyond all the nutty insurance issues that these medical mavens must contend with, is that they are extremely overbooked. I can't tell you how many times I've called one of my specialists with a problem. When I have a rash that won't stop itching, I'll call my dermatologist, only to find out that the first available appointment is ten days away. By that point, I will probably have ripped off enough layers of skin to resemble the Cryptkeeper. Same thing with my ENT. I can easily tell when I have a sinus infection. You call the office. "See you next week." Provided the mucus hasn't choked me in my sleep. And I like these guys!

This brings me to my medical issue of this past week. I've had a seriously arthritic right knee for some time, originally incured during some loopy warm-up exercise during senior year gym class in high school. Of course, my parents, charter members of the anti-doctor regime, took me not to an orthopaedist, but to the old fossil who was our family doctor. The guy had not read a medical magazine since Margaret Truman was playing the piano in the White House. He would prescribe the same thing to anybody. Aspirin. A fairly serious knee situation was largely ignored and the end result is the Mickey Mantle cartilege-less joint that I have today. The bone-on-bone friction has provided me with a wonderful party trick that has always proven to horrify my friends. About ten years ago, a sports injury doctor at UCLA (whose main claim to fame was that his name was found on Heidi Fleiss' client list) told me that I had the right knee of an eighty-year-old. So, unless joints ages like dogs, that leg is now 90. Can I get a senior discount for a quarter of my body?

I have been pretty much episode-free the past several years. Until this past Tuesday. I got up from my desk to get my one daily cup of coffee and suddenly felt twinges of stiffness. I had a lunch down the block with my producer/friend, so I walked there nonetheless, thinking that the exercise might work out the tightness. By the time I walked back, I had more kinks than Ray Davies. When I got home at the end of the day, I was crawling through the front door. I immediately threw myself into the time-honored hourly rendition of Aleve and ice. Nothing.

The next morning, I had as much mobility as Ed Kranepool with an armoir on his back. The only problem was that I had actually had to go to the office, not for any pressing business reasons, but, because my apartment garage was having pipe work done, all cars had to be vacated for the day. I felt like a homeless Vietnam vet. I toddled into the office with a cane. I was ready to do battle with Ebenezer Scrooge two months early. God bless me, everyone.

Unfortunately, I have never clicked with an orthopaedist in Los Angeles. In the dating world of patient and doctor, I have never gotten past the appetizer with the two I tried. So, not only was I not able to walk, but I had nobody to see about it. And then I remembered my internist.

Let me back up albeit gingerly. My original general practitioner in Los Angeles, a well-known cardiologist, had retired two years ago. My medical records were shipped over to a new guy, a Doogie Howser type, who probably only has to shave twice a week. On my first visit to him, his small stature reminded me of a middle school kid who would regularly get stuffed into his locker. But, he had totally read my file and knew more about my body than I did. Impressive. During that first meeting, he pledged that he would be at my disposal for any emergencies on any day, including Christmas. Given I know some friends can't get a doctor to call back within a decade, I bought in. My doctor said that he and I were going to "grow older together." I reminded him that I did have a head start.

So, Wednesday, as I rattled my cane all over the San Fernando Valley, one of those "any emergency on any day" cards needed to be played. I had to start someplace. I called his office and explained the problem. I held on while the receptionist consulted with the doctor. "Can you come in at 3PM today?" Bingo. We had a winner.

Now I figured that, since he wasn't an orthopaedist, my internist was going to be a trifle limited with how he could unbend my knee. If I walked out of his office with an Ace bandage, some pain killing prescription, and a direct line phone number for a fast track to a new ortho guy, I would be today's Lotto winner. But, my guy did so much more. He looked at my knee which was now twice the size of my other leg. He figured an arthritic flare-up, but also considered gout. Huh? Isn't gout something that was treated by Doc Holliday in 1872? Nevertheless, he admitted he was limited to what he could do. Okay, I thought, here comes the vicodin and the phone number. Nope. He was determined to give me immediate relief. And he did. Above and beyond.

He drained the knee. Then he shot it full of cortisone. I had one such shot twelve years ago and that was the most physical pain I had ever felt. Until yesterday. It was so excruciating that I started to pass out. His assistant remarked about my suddenly gray pallor. And, here's something I learned yesterday and it's the medical tip of the day. If you ever feel woozy and a need to faint, cough three times. The action moves blood to your head and the feeling goes away. Amazing. Nevertheless, the cortisone settled into my blood stream wonderfully. My leg could have been broken and I would have still been able to go to Roseland.

On the way out without the cane, now hanging in my closet like Lourdes, I commented that all I had expected was an Ace bandage, vicodin, and the number of an orthopaedist not on Heidi Fleiss' list. He offered all three. I took him up only on the latter. One day later, I was back to normal. And he actually apologized for not being able to do more.

I wouldn't post his name here. But, if you are in the LA area and looking for a new internist, let me know and I will share.

And that reminds me. My eczema is starting up again. Time to see my dermatologist next December.

Dinner last night: Spaghetti and meatballs.