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Recently in Salon Health & Body

Urge
Swollen with bliss
Sometimes even a professional loses her bedside manner.
By Tracy Quan
[10/07/99]

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Nancy Chan: Diary of a Manhattan call girl
About the story and list of characters.
By Tracy Quan
[10/07/99]

Urge
Amateur by the hour
Nancy becomes a first-timer to cover Allison's tail.
By Tracy Quan
[10/07/99]

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"THE RIVER"

An exhaustive history of HIV and AIDS offers a bold new theory about its origins

Column
The dressing room
A suburban dad makes himself into the girl of his dreams.
By Virginia Vitzthum
[10/05/99]

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This is not some muscle you pull while trying out Position 62 of the Kama Sutra. The pain comes from deep within the core of my spinal cord about five inches north of the crack in my buttocks. I drop to the floor, feeling like a deer walloped by a semi going 60 mph.

Still on my back two hours later, I'm finally able to inch my way to grab the phone. The University of Iowa Hospital and Clinics (UIHC), one of the largest university-owned teaching hospitals in the United States, is about a mile away from where I live. This medical center is no doc-in-the-middle-of-the-cornfields. It employs 7,000 doctors, nurses and professional staff. U.S. News & World Report ranks the department of orthopedics eighth in the nation.

After getting a busy signal for 15 minutes, I finally get the orthopedic clinic. Actually, they spell it "Orthopaedic." "This is an emergency," I croak. "I must get in to see a doctor. I can't move."

I momentarily imagine the voice on the other end responding, "Poor baby, come in immediately. Back pain is simply horrible. We can give you drugs, shots, lotions, anything to make that terrible ouch go away."

Instead, this is what I get: "Have you lost control of your bowels?" from a woman who sounds like the thin-lipped Frau Farbissina, the evil henchwoman in the Austin Powers movies.

Come again?

"Have you lost control of your bowels?"

Despite the agony in my back, I keep repeating to myself, "Remember this, because no one will ever believe you."

"No," I answer, getting Frau's drift about how far the needle must go on the Pain-O-Meter to merit an appointment. "But if losing control of my bowels is what it takes to see a doctor, I will climb on your desk, squat over your appointment book, and let loose."

Click. I imagine Frau's lips turning upward to form a satisfied smile.

My next call is to a physician friend, suitably sympathetic, who calls in a scrip for Tylenol 3 to the local Walgreen's, although I'm uncertain how I will get there to pick it up.

"Bed rest, that's what you need," my friend prescribes. "Lie flat on your back for the next week. Don't move."

That's what I do, and sure enough, the pain disappears.

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Flash forward four years. At 5 a.m. one Tuesday last April, I awaken and my lower right leg has gone totally numb.

"God, could this be a stroke?" I ask myself, my heart racing like I have won the trifecta. From knee to big toe, you could stick in long, sharp needles and I wouldn't feel a thing.

I tap my wife on the shoulder. She is snoring lightly.

"Am I speaking clearly? Is my speech garbled?"

"Go back to sleep," she says, hugging her buckwheat hull pillow.

"Kaan yu oonderstund da wurds I um saaaayig?"

"Go back to sleep," the wife advises again, this time more sternly.

So, I'm not having a stroke. But my right leg and foot are still numb, and the moment the clock radio goes from 7:59 to 8:00, I call my internist over at the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics, rated by U.S. News & World Report as the nation's sixth best medical center for primary care.

"He's out till tomorrow," secretary Denise says. "But he'll call in for messages, and I'll ask him to call you."

"But this is an emergency, Denise!"

"He's booked until next Wednesday, his clinic day. That's the day he's reserved to see patients."

Where does the hospital get these people? The reject pile of token-takers at the New York City Transit Authority? The motto seems to be, "How can't we help you?"

"You can always go to the emergency room," Denise offers cheerfully before hanging up.

Like an idiot, I actually think the doctor will call back, so I sit -- actually lie -- on the floor by the phone, all the while the pain still radiating from my lower back, shooting down my right leg like I stuck my big toe into a 220-volt electrical socket. The doctor does not call.

I call Denise at 8 the next morning. "Oh, he's in clinic," she says as though I should know better. "But I left a message with him, and he should return your call."

Another day goes by. The doctor does not call. The pain gets worse.

I call Denise. "Doctor is still in clinic," she tells me as though that explains everything.

If they treat me like this, and I'm a tenured professor at this hallowed institute, how do they treat a pig farmer from Sioux City? Then again, I wonder, how would they treat a University of Iowa tight end with back problems, starting in this Saturday's game against second-ranked Penn State?

Next page | Next time you're at the movies, try shouting, "Is there a doctor in the house?"