The first doctor I relished critiquing was Dr. Frat Boy. Dr. Frat Boy seemed as though he generally knew what he was doing within his ENT specialty. Life in general? Not so much. This is the man who, when I asked him to explain my medical condition to me, stopped in the middle of his very first sentence, stared at me, said, "It's complicated," and got up and walked out of the room and didn't come back. Now, I realize I look as smart as a loaf of bread, but you couldn't dumb it down for me and make due?! Also, this is the same man who argued with me for 15 minutes about skim milk. He had forbade me from drinking my favorite drink on earth, milk, for six weeks. At the end of the six weeks I finally asked him why milk would make such a big difference. He said, "Because of all the fat in it."
"Wait a minute. You wouldn't let me drink milk simply because of the fat? So you're saying I could have been drinking skim milk all along, which is what I always drink anyway, but because you didn't explain why, I deprived myself of milk for nothing??"
"Skim milk has fat in it."
"No, it doesn't"
"Yes. It does. It has a small amount."
"NO, it has none at all."
"YES, it does. I suggest you actually look at the label the next time."
"I HAVE looked at the label and there's no fat in it!"
"You read it wrong."
You can then understand why I would go out of my way to drive to three different stores, buy four different brands of skim milk (eventually drink them all over time) and carefully cut out all four labels that specifically claim 0% fat on each one, and mail them to him at his office as a final kiss-my-butt gesture. No, I'm not spiteful, why?
Oh yes, I rated him. I RATED HIM GOOD.
And then there is The Doctor. If you ask me who the worst doctor on earth is, the doctor who took classes from Dr. Nick Riviera at the Hollywood Upstairs Medical College and managed to fail every class, the doctor who is also one of the worst people I've ever met, and the doctor that changed my young and innocent teenage view of doctors from trusting them to suspecting them of all manner of treachery, it is this doctor. Her name is Dr. Fusan Fiff (names have been changed, but I'll gladly provide a real name per an email request) and she practices in the Denver metro area. However, I will not do her the honor of giving her a proper name so I will merely call her Dr. @#$%&*$%.
The first time I met Dr. @#$%&*$% was for a routine physical. She asked if I had any medical concerns. I said I thought I might have a UTI. I think you'll agree that most doctors would automatically ask, "Really? What makes you think so?" But not this doctor. She responded to me by yelling (yes, you read that right--yelling), "YOU'RE NOT THE DOCTOR, I'M THE DOCTOR AND YOU DON'T DIAGNOSE YOURSELF! THAT'S MY JOB!!" I was too shocked to say anything at all to that. I was absolutely terrified and at once horrified that this person was practicing medicine. The rest of the appointment went way, way downhill after that, with every passing minute me wondering if she was in fact a real doctor. There were things I knew as your average patient that she had no clue about...medical, doctory things mind you. By the end of my appointment I was frantically searching the room for any hint of a diploma from an accredited medical school, expecting to find one instead with someone else's name scratched out and hers inserted above, or one simply written in crayon. It was an absolutely horrific experience.
Then, I had to go back again. I fell one night and sprained my ankle. I knew it was sprained and I knew it wasn't broken. The only thing I didn't know was how much Motrin I could safely take without pooping my own liver. So I made the appointment the next morning. When she came in and asked what the problem was today, I recalled her previous insane outburst and instead of daring to assist her with my own diagnosis, I told her my ankle really hurt. Note: I did said my ankle. She removed my shoe and sock, noticed a tiny faded bruise on top of my foot and asked, "Is that it?" You have no comprehension of the self-control I exhibited then. I slowly said, "No...I think it's more around the side. Where the ankle is." She turned my foot and seeing the ankle swollen to the size of a frickin' baseball, exclaimed, "OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH, THAT'S HUGE! OH MY GOSH!" *sigh* She finally calmed down long enough to show me how to wrap it and tell me how much Motrin I could take. Despite the ankle, I hobbled out of there as fast as I could.
Fun story. I was talking to my dad about doctors one day. He got on the subject of bad doctors and he said the worst doctor he'd ever had in his life was Dr. @#$%&*$%. "Oh my gosh! Me too!" He revealed that she had told him (remember, he was her patient, in an actual appointment) that she hated being a doctor and never wanted to be one, but her husband made her go to medical school so she would make him more money. Nice, huh? I can see why she failed every course in school, what with the distraction of having her husband holding a gun to her head the whole time.
Oh yes, I rated her too. Not quite as theraputic as slapping her internal organs out of her, which is what I plan to do if I ever see her in person again, but it's still something against her and it made me giddy.
Do you know what Dr. Referral said to me in my very first appointment? "Doctors don't know everything and sometimes we make mistakes." No, she doesn't know a whole lot, but she also knows when she doesn't know and she willingly admits it. That's why I chose her as my doctor. She's a good woman. I rated her accordingly.
Now go visit the doctor-grading site and have all manner of fun yourselves. Go! Shoo! And let me know if there is any other possible way I can screw doctors who deserve it because I think I've discovered my calling in life.