I don’t know about you, but I don’t trust doctors. In fact, as my daddy would say, “I don’t trust ‘em any farther than I can throw a full-grown hog.” And, believe me, full-grown hogs, weighing in at 400 or even 500 pounds, give or take an ounce or two, aren’t exactly easy to heft, let along toss any distance.

You ask why I am so wary of doctors. Well, I have reason to be, and once I explain that reason, if you’ve been putting your faith in doctors, I think you’ll be singing an entirely different tune.

Granted, I had always been leery of doctors, which I think was somehow connected this memory I had of being five-years-old and having this goateed lunatic, who was brandishing a hypodermic that looked longer than my arm, chase me around his office as he tried to jab that needle in my skinny little butt. However, I had yet managed to keep my suspicion under control until two years ago when I kept experiencing recurrent indigestion and made the mistake of telling our family doctor my problem.

Pursing his lips and looking wise, he rummaged around in a cabinet and handed me some of those free samples doctors get from drug pushers. “Here,” he said, “take these twice a day.”

I said, “Okay, but what are they?

He said, “A new drug for recurrent indigestion.” Then he cocked his head to one side, narrowed one eye, and said, “But . . . I think we need to make sure it’s actually indigestion your suffering from and not some more serious malady.”

“More serious malady,” I said. “Like what?”

“Well,” he said, “like an ulcer or heart trouble.”

I swallowed a few times before I managed to say, “Heart trouble?”

“Yes, heart trouble.”

So, the next thing I knew I found myself at the office of a heart specialist, who put me through a battery of test, and they were all quite expensive. (Thank the good Lord we have medical insurance) And what did these expensive tests show? Oh, they were all negative except—yes, that’s right, except—the stress test, since, according to this doctor, it showed that I had an “Inverted T.” That’s right, an inverted T. What is that you wonder? Well, an Inverted T is where this squiggly line on the stress test printout goes in the opposite direction of what’s considered normal. So, based upon that, this doctor decided I needed additional and even more expensive tests. However, he said that I should continue taking the free samples provided by the GP since he had a busy schedule and it would take a while to arrange all the tests. 

In the meantime I went to see the stomach specialist, and this doctor also wanted to put me through a battery of expensive tests, one of which was quite unpleasant and painful, given he jabs this long cord, with a camera attached, down your throat in order to photograph your esophagus. And by the way, I mentioned my “Inverted T” to him, and he smiled, shrugged, and said, “Don’t worry about it; women historically have abnormal stress tests.”  He also gave me a prescription for the same drug my GP had provided in the way of free sample and said, “Here get this filled when you use up the free samples Doctor So-and-So gave you.”

I said. “But on the free samples Doctor So-and-So gave me, the directions say to take them only for two weeks, and I’ve now been taking them over a month.”

He again shrugged. “That’s all right. I want you to keep taking them indefinitely.”

“Okey, dokey,” I said. “You’re the doctor.”

It just so happened that following my visit to the stomach guy, I had to go visit my gynecologist since it was time for my annual exam. The first thing he did was frown and say, “Your blood pressure’s way too high. You need to go back to see your GP.” Then, he proceeded to give me my annual examination, which wasn’t cheap, after which he renewed my prescription for my hormone-replacement patches. Oh, and I asked him about the indigestion drug I was taking; and he said, “I’ve heard about that. It’s good stuff. You should keep taking it.”

Leaving his office, I proceeded to the drugstore, and since I was there, I decided to have not only the hormone-replacement prescription filled but also the prescription given to me by the stomach guy. Well, I almost fainted right there in the pharmacy at CVS when the young lady who rang up my purchases told me the price for that indigestion remedy. It was—hold on to your hat—$106 for a 21-day supply. “What?” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Not smiling, she said, “Nope, afraid not.”

I said, “Then I don’t want the stuff.”

She shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”

I went home and called the stomach guy’s office. He was busy so I talked with his nurse and told her how much that medicine cost, an amount I personally thought rather outrageous.

She said, “Then go to Wal-Mart and get Brand X. It’s the same thing but sold over the counter and only costs around $20 for a 60-day supply.”

Anyway, in the meantime, I concluded that something was fishy since I had always had low blood pressure and suddenly my gynecologist was saying it was way too high, so I decided to do some research. And do you know what I learned? I learned that the drug I’d been taking for indigestion had some nasty side effects, one being hypertension.” “Ah, hah,” I thought and immediately ceased taking the drug. And do you know what happened? Within a matter of days my blood pressure was back to normal; that’s what happened. And, no, I did not make another appointment with my GP. Why? Because I had epiphany, that’s why; and during that moment of profound insight, I realized that doctors are all in cahoots, for I could clearly see in my mind’s eye the following scenario:

On a balmy spring day at the golf course of a high-priced country club are four doctors: a GP, a heart specialist, a stomach specialist, and a gynecologist; and they are playing a leisurely round of golf. As the GP steps up for his turn, he says, “Heart Doc, I know your yacht payment is due this month, so I’ll send six patients your way and you can give ‘em all those expensive tests. Stomach Guy, you’re behind in alimony to wife number four, so I’ll send you eight patients; and Woman’s Doc, you want a new BMW, so I’ll send you ten. In exchange, though, each of you need to send at least half the patients back to me—make up a reason if you have to—since I promised my wife a gold Rolex for her birthday.

“But what about me?” a man asks as he approaches in a golf cart.

All the doctors simultaneously turn toward the new arrival.

It’s the drug pusher, who also happens to belong to the same country club and has decided to play a round of golf.

Heart Doc says, “Oh, we’ve got you covered, Drug Pusher. Just keeping bringing the samples. You know how it works: we give ‘em the freebies, they get hooked, then they have to fill the prescriptions.”

And, on that note, I think I’ll go chew a handful of antacids.