Paging Dr. Carter (2009)

For those of us not in the operating room, the day of my mother's mastectomy was excruciatingly long. After several hours, and long after the expected completion time, the lead surgeon came into the room.

Everyone immediately stopped in his tracks. My siblings and I stared at the doctor, frozen, holding our breath. My father stood up, hands in his pockets, and asked how the surgery went.

The doctor frowned and shook his head. He paused before speaking. "Not bad at all," he said slowly. "Not bad at all. No surprises."

::phew::

We all exhaled. We felt a simultaneous wave of relief and an almost irresistible desire to punch the doctor across his gloomy face.

The doctor continued to share details of the surgery. The tumor was small, he said, and he was unable to feel the tumor even after he removed it. As he spoke, he made hand motions like he was passing a canteloupe-sized lump of dough from one hand to the other. It was as if, like Seinfeld's Poppy, he was "a -gonna make-a us a pizza."

To him, the motions helped him explain the situation. To us, it was a creepy image of tossing around our dear. suffering mother's cast-off body parts.

It's not everyone who can inspire terror, relief, anger, and yuck in a five-minute speech.

You hear stories like this all the time, in real life and on TV: sometimes the way a doctor tells you something is as important as the news itself.

In my eighth month of pregnancy I was diagnosed with polyhydramnios, meaning that baby Colin was swimming in an ocean of amniotic fluid and I was swollen like the Hindenberg. This could have been for a dozen reasons, but the OB we saw emphasized the risk of genetic abnormality. "We may not be able to detect what's wrong with prenatal testing or at birth, but it may be linked to something that'll happen when he's fifty." How's that for a looming, nebulous threat?

Other doctors later confirmed what we suspected -- that this OB was a stupid, mean-spirited bitch (pardon my French, but don't mess with my kid), but we were devastated and remained terrified for the last month of my pregnancy. Colin was born perfectly healthy, though come to think of it, this may explain some of our problems in potty training - the kid makes a LOT of fluid!

A little laughter goes a long way. My mother's general surgeon's may be an Eeyore, but her plastic surgeon is all Tigger. Last week she had her space expanders filled to 100%, whicapparently is somewhat uncomfortable. When she asked the doctor whether he was almost finished he said, "Let me put it this way. If you were in a wet t-shirt contest right now, on this side you'd win but on the other side you'd only come in third."

Given, I'm not sure I want my doctors talking about wet t-shirt contests, but if you think about my 62-year old, prim, recently mastectomied mother in one, you get comedy. She thought so too, and the rest of the fill-up went by quickly.

A doctor's bedside manner is an indicator of a good bedside manner. Humor indicates confidence and respect; putting a joke out into the world is on some level a sign that you care about connecting with someone. It also takes time, which is comforting when medical staff and medical terminology are whizzing around you at light speed.

Of course, getting healthy is the main thing. I'd prioritize medical skill over humor and compassion; if my life depended on good medical care I'd pick 1994 Dr. Benton over 1994 Dr. Carter. Carter was earnest and caring, but the capability wasn't there. My point is I don't think we should have to choose. Talk to me like I'm an adult, take time to explain things to me, tell me the truth but don't scare the crap out of me, and feel free to crack a joke or two.

Sick people have it hard enough already.