A brilliantly witty piece from Justin Coleman about being duped. I can certainly relate. I once had a regular patient with whom I spent 45 minutes talking about how she would tell her 10 year old daughter that she was dying of metastatic ovarian cancer. She was in tears, I was in tears. Understandably, she was on high doses of opioids for her cancer pain. It was only later I discovered her impressive medical documentation was fake and that she had neither cancer nor a daughter. It was all an elaborate hoax to get prescriptions.
Illustration: Ben Sandars
This month I got done over by a drug seeker. Tattoo Man basted me like a Christmas turkey, peppered me with garnished praise and slow baked his way through my seasoned outer crust. Bugger.
Usually, when it comes to slamming the script pad shut, I’m all Fort Knox.
Reception deliberately sends all hopeful newcomers down dead-end street to my brick wall. Five minutes later they exit, loudly proclaiming to the waiting room that, in effect, my clinical decisions are being influenced by the rather unlikely combination of both my genitalia and distal GI tract.
Funnily enough, those occasions are relatively easy. My patients in the waiting room know me well enough to guess what might have happened. And everyone knows their role: the receptionists blame me, as instructed, and I blame our Practice Policy—the only thing I’ve ever written which remains unsigned.
“Sorry madam, I’d love to…
View original post 419 more words