A Hypochondriac

Polls and surveys across the US and the UK have consistently found that doctors are among the most trusted people in the world, along with scientists, nurses, teachers and Siti Nurhaliza.

During my childhood years, there were only three Malay doctors in Kota Bharu, or probably in the whole great state of Kelantan. For some reason, I still remember their names: Dr Ezani, Dr Khalil and Dr Aziz. I'm not sure of the spelling, but these guys were rightly respected and revered. Their words were cast in stone. Of the lot, Dr Ezani stood out for his athletically good looks. My late mother only wanted to see Dr Ezani, citing his "good medicine".

I wish I'd more friends who're doctors. With advancing age and without any medical insurance, I really need good and free medical advice on anything that's physically and mentally dragging me. Free here means impartial and unbiased, not that free, although I don't mind that, too.

I can now count only four Tiger Lane classmates who'd gone on to become doctors. Dr Norsham had left us, Dr Basir had left his practice for real estate business (he's richer than all his classmates combined), Dr Abd Rahman is a retired gynaecologist and Dr Awal is an active ENT specialist. Wait, there's one more, a senior in my dorm, Dr Fadzil, a debonair psychiatrist who's left his clinic to play golf full-time (you've to believe this). A gynaecologist, for my purpose, is no more useful than my next-door neighbour.  So technically I'm left with only Dr Awal, and that only if I've nose and ear issues.

In fact I went to see him early last year at his clinic at a KPJ Hospital. He jumped out of his chair and we hugged. We talked about Mrs Foo, everybody's favourite teacher (you know the reason), who'd loudly complain every time Awal came late to class.

Finally he'd a good look at my ear and found nothing that I should worry about. (It's alright now).  After offsetting a couple of nasi lemak I bought him forty-five years ago, the bill came to exactly zero. Fine gesture, but what's more important for me is his objective opinion and prognosis. No medication and no open-heart surgery required. Would another doctor reach the same conclusion?  

I know there're hundreds of so-called specialists in the government hospitals to handle the whole range of modern-day maladies. But it's never easy to see them. You've to pretend that you're down with some terminal disease, your end is near, you're an orphan etc. Even that you've to wait. I'd to wait for six months to see my dream urologist at Hospital Serdang. When I saw him, he got me to pee into a clever bowl that can measure my pee speed and trajectory. My speed was equivalent to that of a second-hand Viva. 

Such is the state of our medical system, purportedly the best in the world. If only we knew which world. We've to wait six months to measure our pee speed and prostate size, while the politicians are fighting and feuding days on end to decide whether a 72-year-old man is qualified to replace a 95-year old man. Bloody hell, any man is qualified to replace a 95-year old man.

I really wish my campus mate Hafiz were a doctor. He's a homeopath. I know it rhymes with sociopath, but he's not like that. He's just a homeopathy hobbyist, lobbyist and part-time practitioner. He's always available on short notice if you need free advice on herbs, ketum, opium, grass and similar stuff. Deeply philosophical, he views death as a happy occasion all of us should look forward to. I'm fine with that, but he also has this idea that I'm a hypochondriac.

He has a bone to pick, of course. I'm not a big fan of alternative medicine and he knows it. To me, tongkat ali, durian belanda, daun betik, primrose petang and other poetic plants are all scams. We remained good friends.

I'm firmly with Dr Amalina, a Cambridge-trained doctor who's aggressively advocating against suspect supplements and malicious medicine. You know these stuff, they're all over prime-time Astro, preying on the poor and the less lucky, who in turn would blame Lim Guan Eng for everything.

I don't know whether Dr Amalina still holds the world record of 45 A in SPM. But I can clearly see that she has loads of style and looks fresher than the beleaguered Health Minister, whose intellectual banter with his party boss recently was telecast live over 500 countries. Come on, PM, make Dr Amalina our Health Minister today. Do this one thing, backdoor and all will be forgiven.

To be fair to my friend Hafiz, I do get easily disturbed and worked up at the slightest feeling and sign of sickness. Maybe it's a talent passed down by my dear mother so that I'll never forget her. (I'll never forget her). A slight pain while pissing or a blacker than black stool is enough for me to get theatrical. I'll be jumpy, restless, and angry with Pep Guardiola and everybody. I can't wait to get to the bottom of the mystery. This, incidentally, brings forth the issue I'm having with doctors, the most trusted people in the world.

Last September I was unwell. I felt warm. Warm, not worm. I know we're born warm-blooded and all that, but this was abnormally, excessively warm. Warm not in the metaphorical sense of being warm and welcoming and friendly with all races, transgenders and Israel. It's real, literal, physical warmth. It's like heat coming out of my biological being. I sweated profusely when I talked and didn't talk. Buckets of fluids were pouring out when I jogged. It was sweaty and feverish one day, normal and nifty the next day. I consulted Hafiz the homeo, he said I was a hypochondriac.

At the height of this heat and sweat attack, I'd sleepless nights. I'd stay awake and had to watch bad  sports like cricket, Norwich vs Brighton etc. After five weeks, I went to see a GP at a nearby clinic and poured my heart out. She did what all doctors in this part of the world would do: test for dengue fever.  It was positive, I'd just had the dreaded denggi. I was so happy, not so much because I'd survived, but because I now knew what's wrong with my whole ragged system.

After two weeks it came back. No, not Norwich vs Brighton. It's the heat wave. The very same heat and sweat symptoms. I called Hafiz for some wisdom. He said I was a hypochondriac.

My wife who'd been a bystander all this while came on with her piece of mind, insinuating that it was all my hormone wreaking havoc. "It's something like menopause or whatever you want to call it". In all our forty years of marriage,  she'd never sounded this serious and informed. We went to see the GP again, and she (GP, not wife) recommended that I see a physician.

I immediately ruled out government hospitals. This looked serious and I should'n wait six months. I didn't know any physician personally. Dr Awal was strictly ear and nose. Dr Fadzil? No, I was sick, not mad. So I'd to search the  private hospitals. I was spoiled for choice: KPJ, Pantai, SimeDarby, Gleneagles, Tawakkal, Prince Court, Pusrawi, Assunta, Columbia, you name it.

Choosing a hospital now is more complex than buying a smartphone. You've to evaluate the price, understand the product, read reviews, and compare across the brand names. Prince Court sounds exciting and extortionate, Tawakkal is, well, Tabligh, Assunta reminds me of Mother Teresa. I ruled out all three, and went for one of the rest (I won't name it, sorry).

I'd to wait only one week to see the specialist of my choice. He had 30 years experience, including a postgrad training in the UK. I calculated that if he worked 200 days a year, and saw 10 different patients a day, he'd have seen 60,000 patients before I stepped into his office. This guy was on top of his game.

I reckoned that by just looking at my tongue or my eyes, he could deduce in fine detail about my food intakes, my sleep habits, my hormone balance (ha,ha). In short, he'd confirm once and for all that I was genuinely sick and not a hypochondriac (take that, homeo). This should be over in a jiffy, 15 minutes max.

But, no. He didn't look at my tongue. After listening to my story, he subjected me to a rigmarole of chest X-Ray, ECG, ultrasound and blood test. He'd decide on the next steps once he'd seen the test results. The following week we sat down again and ran through the results. He stopped at one particular reading and declared that I was down with typhoid.

Typhoid? In 2019?  I last heard of typhoid in 1961 when half of Kelantan was flooded. I knew lately some migrant workers were spreading defunct diseases, but I just couldn't believe I had typhoid.  It seemed so surreal, far-fetched, even comical. But the doctor stood by his diagnosis. And I'd to be admitted for a course of intravenous antibiotics. Minimum five days!

I stood my ground. Firstly, I wanted a second opinion. Secondly, five days at this commercial hospital would cost me a bomb. Antibiotics treatment is not a hip replacement, nothing complicated. Any government hospital would gladly do it for free with meal. I could use the money for another trip to Italy. So I flatly  refused admission.

I guessed the doctor, with 60,000 patients behind him, was familiar with my species. He understood and made no attempt to discourage me. After all, it was my typhoid, not his.

I went to Ampang Hospital Emergency the next day with my typhoid referral. I'm naming the hospital so that you don't have to guess whether it was Tampin or Tumpat. The guy who received me wasn't too happy. Maybe it was his SOP to look angry at any private hospital deserter. After a one-hour wait, my number was called.

I stepped into the doctor's room and what I saw almost stopped me on my tracks. It was a young medical officer with spiky and oily hair, and tight pants that fell off his waist. He waved me into my seat. I eagerly handed over my test results and showed him the typhoid part. He took my temperature, my blood pressure and coolly concluded "Ini bukan typhoid, Pakcik". "If I had my blood tests today, I  might have the same results" he added with a tinge of insult. This punk was a godsend.

After another round of X-Ray, ECG, and blood test, and I was back with the doctor. He went through the results on his PC, leaving me breathless. "Confirmed no typhoid, Pakcik, sorry". He returned to me the private hospital test results "Ambil balik. Mesti mahal ni" (His exact words). The tone was somewhere between cynical and sarcastic, but I was happy.

I found just enough time to "grill" him about his hometown, education etc , just to make sure that he'd not been taking lessons from Apps or YouTube. He was totally bona fide, graduating from UKM medical faculty in 2015. Only four years experience, including 2 years as slave houseman.

I'm proud to declare that I'm also a UKM graduate. I'd been very indifferent about the quality of local universities, until I met this young doctor. I now think UKM is better than Berkeley.

So that's that.

Sorry for the cliche, but my faith in doctors has been shaken. Has conscience finally succumbed to commerce? Or has medical science become inexact that what is typhoid to one doctor is not typhoid to another? Or is this nothing more than a rare and blatant case of professional howler? You don't have to answer this.

I'd nothing but respect, admiration and partiality towards modern, mainstream medicine. But in the wake of this unhappy episode, maybe it's now time to try the papaya leaf !

I've turned a corner and I'm feeling good now. No more heat and sweat.  It's great to be a normal person again after a tumultuous time.  I'm writing this with the big question mark still hovering: what exactly have I been down with? If it's not typhoid, then what?   

Maybe I'll never get to know. And no, I'm not going to ask my homeo friend, because I already know his answer: I'm a hypochondriac.