Mistaken Identity

Three weeks after failing to find acupressure near my office, Jip and I ventured out to a hospital near our place in hopes of relieving her shoulder pain. We’d been assured that an experienced practitioner of this Chinese therapy held a clinic there on Saturday mornings. His name, as I understood it, was “Puang Paa.” Jip was doubly excited about meeting him, first because his name translates as “reliable,” and because she prefers men doctors.

I had learned from our previous experience that we should make an appointment. Also, we brought along the caregiver who was working that morning. I figured she could explain Jip’s symptoms better than I could. She happens to be the youngest of the three women who take care of Jip, but she has more experience working in health care settings than the other two. That experience, I thought, would offset the reluctance among many Thai people to ask questions of their doctors, especially if the age gap is fairly wide.

The busy waiting room is ringed with doctors’ offices, each with a name on the door. I walked around looking for Dr. Puang Paa. No sign. Not to worry. Most likely once-a-week docs don’t get a sign of their own, I reasoned.

The nurse who called Jip’s name led us to a room where we found a woman sitting at the desk. The name on the door was Fuang Faa. She asked what seemed to be the problem.

Then, déjà vu. Jip asked who she was. She looked at me, not understanding Jip’s speech. I explained that not only is Jip’s vision quite poor, and her speech somewhat impaired, but she likes to know a little about her doctors’ backgrounds before she begins. The doctor said her name was Fuang Faa. Jip asked where was Puang Paa.

Jip’s caregiver flashed me an “Uh, oh” look. She deduced faster than I did that I had mixed up the name’s first letters, which in Thai look as alike as they do in English. Jip hadn’t understood yet that this woman was the doctor, and so continued to ask when he was going to arrive. The doctor continued to ask what seemed to be the problem. Things were not starting out well.

After several minutes it became clear to Jip that there was no Puang Paa, and became clear to the doctor that there was nothing she could do for Jip. Dr. Fuang Faa told us, a bit too bluntly for my tastes, that we had been referred in error, that her specialty was acupuncture, and that anyway the best kind of doctor for us would be a neurologist. Jip laughed, saying that because she had lived with this disease for a long time, she could probably teach most neurologists a few things about it. Things were not progressing well.

I was ready to flee the scene. Just as I started to move toward the door, ready to apologize for wasting everyone’s time, the voice of Jip’s caregiver froze me in my tracks. She was addressing the doctor.

I listened with a mixture of horror and delight as this twenty-something told this fifty-something that she needed to have a bit more respect for her patient. The caregiver suggested that instead of talking about Jip as if she weren’t in the room, that the doctor could try putting herself in Jip’s shoes for a minute. That perhaps more listening and less lecturing were in order here. That even if the doctor couldn’t do anything for Jip, that there were gentle ways of letting us know that.

Or at least that’s the way I understood it. A certain amount may have been lost in translation. But whether or not the caregiver was really speaking as fiercely as I thought she was, now I was really ready to run. It even occurred to me that Dr. Fuang Faa was preparing to pick up the phone and call security.

A hospital nurse, who had been standing silently throughout the interview, mercifully brought things to a close by whispering that the next appointment was probably ready. We all filed out. I asked our caregiver about where to find the cashier. She told me that there would be no bill, and led the way to the exit.