Chapter 9: Why Come to the Hospital if You Don't Trust Doctors?
Frustrated, dismissed, and patronized!
When would young doctors finally get some respect!
When would interns stop being treated like incompetent children!
David stood up, ready to ask this mother—who clearly didn't trust medical expertise—to leave.
But when he saw the child, who understood nothing and was staring blankly at him, David immediately calmed down.
If the kid's life was endangered because his mother refused the inhaler treatment, then successfully persuading her to change her mind would count as saving a life—and thus extending David's own.
Sitting back down, David decided to deploy some professional knowledge and try once more:
"Ma'am, do you actually understand what asthma is? Or do you understand but just don't care?
Do you realize your current behavior is literally gambling with your son's life?
Listen carefully!
The cells lining your child's airways, when triggered by allergens or irritants, release inflammatory mediators that cause bronchial constriction.
Simultaneously, mucus production increases and the epithelial layer starts to shed, leading to severe bronchial inflammation.
Inhaled corticosteroids stop this inflammatory cascade.
If you don't stop this reaction, your son will eventually suffocate. Is that clear enough for you?"
The boy's mother was stunned by David's rapid-fire medical explanation.
Though she didn't understand half the terminology, she was definitely impressed.
David's confident, authoritative delivery suddenly made him seem taller, more credible, more... like a real doctor.
She, who moments ago had been threatening loudly, suddenly became meek:
"Dr... Dr. Wells, is there really no other option?"
Seeing the shift in the mother's demeanor, David thought to himself: Of course. You have to project authority.
Only with enough confidence will patients trust your diagnosis.
A tentative, apologetic tone only makes you seem weak and inexperienced, leading them to doubt the results.
Having learned this lesson, David used only definitive statements when he spoke again.
"Trust me, there is no better treatment for asthma currently available!
Inhaled corticosteroids are the gold standard, the universally recognized best therapy for managing asthma!
If you want your son to grow up healthy, you need to start the inhaler right now—today, this minute!
Otherwise, you'll regret it for the rest of your life!
Even if Dr. House were standing here, he'd give you the exact same diagnosis!"
Hearing David's decisive words, clear hesitation crossed the mother's face:
"There's really no alternative?"
David pointed directly toward the door:
"If you don't trust medical expertise, if you don't trust the safety profile of inhaled corticosteroids, then please leave.
Free up this appointment slot for someone who actually wants help. Thank you."
Faced with David's ultimatum, the mother finally backed down.
She stopped threatening to file complaints. She stopped demanding to wait for House.
Taking her son's hand, she obediently accepted David's prescription and headed to the pharmacy to fill it.
However, the life extension David had hoped for didn't arrive.
It seemed the boy's symptoms weren't severe enough yet.
Apparently, obtaining life rewards through routine clinic work would be difficult.
After all, when patients were truly critical, they went to the ER—not to a specialty clinic that required appointments.
David glanced at his watch. Diagnosing the condition had taken thirty seconds, while convincing the mother to accept treatment had taken nearly thirty minutes.
Exactly as House had predicted.
Even with modern medicine being so advanced, countless people still didn't trust doctors.
The time physicians spent explaining why they were doing something far exceeded the time needed for actual diagnosis.
This also explained why the next patient in clinic sometimes had to wait forever.
Just as David was processing this thought, House burst through the door, cursing, indicating that David's clinic coverage was over.
David, who'd assumed he'd be stuck there until the four o'clock shift change, asked somewhat confused:
"What happened?"
House snorted:
"Cuddy threatened me. Said if I let you see patients unsupervised again, she'd revoke all my hospital privileges.
Damn bureaucrat's playing politics with patient care!"
After venting his anger for a few moments, House suddenly seemed to remember something. He walked over and picked up the clinic chart David had just completed.
He scrutinized it carefully, clearly trying to find mistakes.
That way he could knock David down a peg.
But no matter how thoroughly he examined it, there was absolutely nothing wrong with the documentation.
Except for the time stamp.
House raised his eyes and studied the composed David, then spoke:
"Asthma? That's not exactly a challenging diagnosis.
Why'd it take so long? The mother didn't want to cooperate, right?
You're still inexperienced. You need more patient contact hours to develop clinical skills.
Next time you encounter this situation, just tell her straight up—if she's not going to listen to medical advice, she shouldn't waste time at the hospital. She should go to the funeral home and start picking out caskets.
Alright, I'll let you know about the next differential.
Now go to the pharmacy and pick up the albendazole for Rebecca."
House closed the chart, used his cane to gesture toward the door, signaling David could leave.
David shrugged, choosing not to comment on House's suggestion.
If he actually told a patient to go buy a coffin, he'd probably get assaulted and become the next House—limping around with a cane.
If the patient was particularly unhinged, David might even get shot in the parking lot after his shift.
In America, where gun violence was an everyday occurrence, this was a very real possibility.
Brain cancer wasn't the only thing threatening David's life.
Having retrieved the medication, David arrived at Rebecca's room carrying her X-ray films.
At that moment, Rebecca was staring blankly at the ceiling, completely indifferent to the test results.
David was intimately familiar with this state.
He'd been there himself. This was the look of someone waiting to die.
Except Rebecca was much luckier than he'd been—she could actually be cured.
After David cleared his throat twice to get Rebecca's attention, he clipped the X-ray onto the lightbox, flipped the switch, and pointed to a bullet-shaped white mass on the film:
"Rebecca, the results are in. Look here—this is a larva. A tapeworm larva."
Hearing David's voice, Rebecca's gaze finally focused on him.
After seeing the white mass, a flicker of hope seemed to appear in her eyes, but it quickly faded.
She was terrified of hope being crushed again.
Seeing Rebecca's silent reaction, David continued:
"This is the proof you needed. There's a larva in your thigh muscle.
Which means there are definitely more larvae throughout your body, including in your brain.
And they've likely been living there for about six years."
Rebecca's expression shifted slightly:
"Really?"
David smiled, turned to pour Rebecca a glass of water, then handed her two tablets:
"Absolutely. This is albendazole. Take two tablets after meals daily for one month, and you'll be cured."
"Just... two pills?"
Rebecca's eyes filled with disbelief. Compared to the suffering she'd endured from countless invasive treatments, the idea that two simple pills could cure her illness seemed impossible.
She had every reason to suspect that this intern standing in front of her was lying.
With that thought, the spark of hope that had ignited in Rebecca's eyes was extinguished again. She pushed away the medication David offered and smiled bitterly:
"I get that you might mean well, but what I need least right now is false comfort. Just let me die in peace."
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