What to expect when your brain wants to kill you excerpt from chapter: FAMILY DOCTORS

My father was a family doctor, so for most of my life, I never needed one. If I required any care, I was treated at home. I used to get allergy shots when I was a kid. Once a week - every Thursday - right after dinner, when he had finished his tea, my dad would give me my needle. If I had a fever or a bad cold, he would reach into his old black doctor’s bag and dispense antibiotics.


My dad was a minor celebrity in my small hometown. As a teenager, I was often introduced as “Old Doc White’s son.” I was not always thrilled by that moniker - especially when my high school history teacher used it - but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to cherish such an honour. He was probably the last doctor in our community to do house calls and to visit his patients in the hospital. He set a very high bar for bedside manner.


I have lived a remarkably healthy life - at least physically and so after I moved away from home, there was no urgency to find a new family doctor. Then, one day, I was overcome with a visually impairing headache. I suffered a week before I finally gave in to my wife’s demands and went to a walk-in clinic. After an hour’s wait, I saw the doctor, who seemed less than interested. He poked a little, massaged my neck and then told me flat-out that I didn’t have meningitis. “How wonderful”! I thought. Too bad I still had a splitting headache.


I was then presumptuous enough to ask point blank what it could be, and the doctor proceeded to rhyme off a list of “don’t bother me” options, concluding with “God Only Knows.” He never even gave me any treatment options. I asked if I should take Tylenol, and he shrugged and said, “Sure. You could try that.” I was so frustrated. I could have made the GOK diagnosis myself. The agony lasted two more days before my head finally cleared. That’s my rule now: always wait 10 days before going to the doctor because chances are it’s simply a case of GOK and will clear itself up soon enough.


My father once told me that when he was in medical school, they said to always look for horses first, not zebras; that is, to look for common explanations for symptoms rather than exotic ones. Seems sensible enough, but in this day and age of advanced diagnostic imaging, the concern of missing a zebra is far more important than identifying a horse. Saving a life is what really matters. I’ve never been a zebra. I’ve never been diagnosed with a “real” disease.