Sunflower Blog

World Medicine

In sorting out information at my pharmacy today. I realize how international my world of health care is.

My new internal medicine doctor is a first generation American, his parents having come from India before he was born. I really had to squeeze some brain cells to come up with his first name for the pharmacist to verify which physician in Dallas he was. By the time she came up with the address on Gaston, I remembered "Pratik." I could remember he graduated from Highland Park High School here in town before I could remember his first name. Anyhow, thanks to his parents coming to the United States when they did.

I lost my family doctor of almost 20 years recently. He didn't retire. He died. Lyme disease took him at 57. I always thought of him as an older brother. It was such a shock, as well as a bump in the road of my health care. My mother's internal medicine doctor's practice just added Dr. Kapadia to their practice. I feel special being able to start with a doctor that in the family's health circle, and new to the problems that can happen at Baylor. Dr. Kapadia's very--well, I can see the kind of student he was in school. I like him, and I still mourn the passage of a relatively young healer. I have an article half written about the former Dr. Sterling Walton that I will post eventually. I hope to be able to talk to his wife, after some time passes.

The other international doctor I have claim to is a Russian psychiatrist. My previous Indian psychiatirst went on to treat the mentally retarded. After about two years of doctor hopping, I've run across a doctor in my insurance healthcare network that I feel comfortable with. It doesn't strike me as strage that I'd like a Russian. As a former teacher of English as a Second Language, I enjoy the variation in vocabulary. Also, if I don't understand what I'm being told, I will ask until they say it so that I know what they mean.

Some fall to the side in the test, like my short-term Russian physical therapist. I saw her twice. The second session we were in a private room, and I was sitting on the table. She said "Get on the floor."
Wanting to be the dutiful patient, I got on the floor. I got off the table, and sat down on the floor. She was aghast! She thought I was fainting. She got SO excited, and I was embarrassed because she was so upset. It wasn't a big deal, but it was a big deal. Consequently, I went to another physical therapist. Dallas has lots of options.

So now the man I tell my moody-bipolar problems to, answers me with the accent familiar in the Boris and Natasha cartoon. His name is Vladislov Yagenov (don't hold me to the spelling). I can't tell how old he is. His hair is solid black. He wears a gold band on the middle finger of his left hand. I was looking upside down, but I swear it was the middle finger. This is something all unmarried American females check. Plus, he's kinda cute. He prounced me looking better than my visit with him about two weeks ago. He said, "No, is not hair cut," when I pointed out an obvious difference. We can communicate. That's what's important.

So with my Indian internist, and Russian psychiatrist, I am truly grateful for those people who manage to get in to the United States these days. Not all immigrants swin across the Rio Grande River. That's a completely different matter.