I like very old doctors with hide for skin. It would be nice if they coughed a lot and had rheumy eyes. It would be great if they had bad shoes and an odd tie and their belts missed a couple of hooks and they wrote using their left hand. I want an old doctor who will put two fingers under my wrist and listen keenly because I know he can listen to the language of my blood and what ails my heart. I want an old doctor who takes ten minutes at the sink washing his hands while he stares blankly out the window. A doctor who has a wrist watch older than me. A doctor who doesn’t know what Instagram is. A doctor who doesn’t even know who or what Justin Bieber is. A doctor who knows at least one Mau Mau fighter by name.
I want a doctor who during his free time drinks copious amounts of cognac, or an odd whisky like Jim Beam. I have never met anyone who drinks Jim Beam in my lifetime and I have been drinking whisky for a while. Jim Beam seems like something a den of political activists would drink before they go burn an effigy in the street. My old doctor would drink Jim Beam and watch nothing but the History Channel (which for him would be like watching current news).
I like old doctors because they are the closest you will ever get to God, after men of the cloth. Men ordained to heal. They are studious and curious. They are thorough and dedicated. Their hands might shake but they are precise and accurate. You walk into their office and just their sight and the smell of the old leather seat that they are disappeared into will make you feel better.
Old doctors are becoming extinct. They are being replaced by these young doctors who sing along to Bieber’s Love Yourself (great song, though) as they press your lower abdomen. The old doctors are being replaced by young fancy doctors with tattoos running under their wrists and dreadlocks dangling down their backs. Doctors with tongue piercings. These are doctors who have watched too much of the TV series Scrubs and think medicine is one big adventure.
I took my son to one paediatrician who looked younger than my last born brother. He didn’t know how to loosen up my son, how to make him smile, how to make the boy trust him. He didn’t care. Why would he when he had such great shoes? He was as friendly and approachable as Trump’s hair. I felt like my son was being seen by a techie not a doctor. And I didn’t like him. He would have been better tending to cats, because cats don’t care for you or your shoes or your choice of pop music.