I have a most unpleasant appointment this afternoon with a hearing aid saleswoman who calls herself a “health care professional.” The lying jade told me, in what passed for a clinical test, that I didn’t understand half of what she told me. It was she who didn’t hear me, mind, and yet she boasted afterwards that she was a “normal-hearing person.” Smug little jezebel!
It’s what one expects, however. If she says there’s a problem, she makes a sale. Same thing at a garage. How often has a mechanic told you, from under the hood, “clean as a whistle”? I went through this for years until I sold my old Ford Explorer. Until then I had had the garage on speed-dial.
That’s how my father practiced medicine. With his skills honed in the Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps, he became adept at emergency surgery, and afterwards firmly believed that there were few ailments that couldn’t be cured by loping off a limb or two. And so a patient would come in complaining of a headache and leave with one less arm. Laugh. if you must, but old Stumpy never complained of a headache again!
One thing’s for sure. My father would never have condoned the end-of-life counseling recommended by Obamacare’s Independent Payment Advisory Board. That’s like telling a client to drop dead.
