“So, do you have a stand on that, then?” She was smartly dressed in jeans and what looked to be an expensive white silk blouse and divided her eyes between my face and a little notebook in her lap. Whenever I said something she liked, she would scribble furiously and noisily in it. Otherwise it was silent -a non-attributable form of media manipulation? The noise amused me more than anything.
“I thought we’d already established that I like to hear what the patient is saying and then try to diagnose…” -I thought I’d sprinkle a few medical terms at her- “… what it is that she is trying to tell me.” I stared at her silent notebook and then added: “There’s more to conversation than words.” Her face took on the look of a dog that hears a noise it can’t locate. I could tell I was losing her. “You know: tone of voice, cadence of speech, body language…”
Her expression softened, and there were a few cursory scratches of pencil on paper. “A bit wish-washy. I’m trying to get at what you actually believe.” She said the word as if there were discrepancies in my answers so far.
“I believe…” –I thought I’d italicize the word as well- “…that it’s important to understand what my patient believes -read between her lines, if you will.”
Well, that metaphor was lost on her. “The lines, then.” Silence: pen gripped tightly but motionless, eyes fixed, breath held. More was expected: an addendum. “I mean that sometimes a person says one thing , but actually means something else that they’re afraid to say… Or maybe haven’t really decided what they think.”
Her brow crinkled -rather cute, I thought. “But you’re the doctor! Wouldn’t you have an opinion on what she was telling you?”
I took a deep breath but tried to disguise it in case that would somehow get translated into pencil scratches. “If I knew what she was telling me, I suppose it might help me to direct my subsequent questions more appropriately…”
“But,” she interrupted, pencil at the ready, “let’s say the woman has already come in to see you with… a situation…” I suspect she thought she was being sensitive with that choice of words. Politically neutral. “Wouldn’t that in itself give you the information you need?”
I shifted into my bland I’m-not-sure-what-you-mean mode that I often find helpful in the office. “Information, yes; solution, no.”
I’m still not sure why I had agree to be interviewed. Not really. Superficially I suppose it was because one of my colleagues was doing abortions and had a recent complication with the procedure -through no fault of his own, I might add. The woman had tried to self-induce a termination of her pregnancy, failed, become seriously infected, and then sought medical help from my colleague. He performed his job admirably and saved her life through his own skill and knowledge, but someone had leaked the ‘complication’ to the press and the whole event had been misconstrued. So perhaps I’d wanted to set things straight. But that’s not what this journalist saw as her mission. I suspect she actually wanted to know the opinion of a gynaecologist who worked in an ostensibly Catholic hospital.
I’d tried to dissuade her from that approach at the start, but to no avail. Now I was becoming a little annoyed at her persistence. But if the truth be recognized, it was her agenda that bothered me the most. I put on my best doctor smile and sat back in my chair. “Perhaps it might be a good time for you to be more specific. What is the question that you are leading up to?” Somewhere inside I blushed at my ending the sentence with a preposition and wondered if that might be one of the few sentences that she would quote in her article.
She gripped the pencil tightly; I could see the bones in her hand standing at attention just under her skin. “Doctor, you work at a Catholic hospital, do you not?” I nodded, but it was one of her conditions for the interview in the first place. “What do you think of abortions, then?”
My smile continued without interruption. I knew that was what she wanted, and had expected it at the beginning. And yet the question, at least for me, was irrelevant: where I work does not determine what I think. And what I think does not interfere with how I manage a patient with a problem. The journalist was staring at me, pencil poised, a subsequent question rolling around in her mouth just waiting for my answer. “Would you care to contextualize that?” I said, knowing full well she would have no idea what I meant.
I crossed my arms and leaned forward on the desk that I had been careful to sit behind at the start of the interview. “You asked me what I thought of abortion. You might as well have asked me what I thought of fibroids…”
“I… I don’t see…”
“No, you don’t do you? Well let me put things into context for you, then. Abortions? I wish they were unnecessary. But then I also wish that people only became pregnant when they chose. And if they chose. In life, things happen, and not always for the best. I don’t much approve of smoking either, but that doesn’t mean that if a person were to become ill because they smoked I wouldn’t try my best to help them. Or in my own field, if they were to develop chlamydia or gonorrhea that I wouldn’t help them because they hadn’t used a condom, or maybe adhered to my own person moral preferences.
“Am I an ethical relativist? You might better ask me if I am a doctor. If you were to walk through that door looking for help, my first question would not be whether we had the same belief systems or the same cultural norms. No, it would be what can I do to help you? In other words, how are you suffering? And if I asked you about your sexual practices, or preferences it would not be to criticize, but to help in the diagnosis and treatment of the condition for which you had sought my help.”
“Are you Pro-Choice then?” I could see the words forming on her lips before she uttered them.
“We all have choices and I respect that. It’s not for me to interfere; I am not the person who has to make them. But I prefer to think of myself as Pro-Help… Perhaps I am the sounding board that helps you to make the Choice for yourself.”
With that she tucked her pencil and the notebook in a little shoulder bag and stood up. She sighed deeply and demonstrably. I had wasted fifteen or twenty minutes of her time. Now she was going to have to find another doctor to interview, I supposed. I stood up and extended my hand to shake, but she took it somewhat reluctantly, I think. “I’m sorry you decided not to commit yourself, doctor.”
I’m assuming it was a subtle put-down, but I allowed my smile to dance a moment longer on my face until I tucked it carefully away. “Actually, I think I did,” I said, and ushered her out of the room.