Fellini Movie or Actual Visit to Ear, Nose, Throat "specialist"?

Talk about WEIRD!

Our visit yesterday to the Ear, Nose, Throat alleged-specialist in the tiny Appalachian mountain town of Boone was easily the strangest experience we've had yet with any banjo-playing canoe-paddling type individual calling himself a doctor anywhere in these here parts.

And if that paragraph's description doesn't quite make sense to you, welcome to our world.

Wow.

So we get referred to this guy, Dr. X (so I don't get sued), by our chemo oncologist, only she suggests three other doctors before this guy. Dr X was last on the list. But since none of the good ones had openings until almost summer, we went with the Dr. that had the first opening, which was like one day later. As in, perhaps has no patients? As in, never go to a doctor who has no patients. As in, there is a reason.

So here's Bill, who in 65 years of life has never ONCE had massive buckets of blood pouring out of his nose with giant gross blood clots. But now he has cancer and is in chemo and this bizarre nose thing starts. Those are the facts to keep in mind.

First, when you go into the building, the sign to the guy's office has one arrow pointing left and one arrow pointing right. Both arrows claiming to tell you how to get to his office which is on the second floor. After studying this paradox, we decide to ignore the sign and just walk upstairs.

You get to the 2nd floor. There are two doors. One says, "Staff only" and the other says NOTHING. So we had to try the door with nothing on it, and we find ourselves in what looks like a doctor waiting room. To see if we are in the right place, we naturally begin looking everywhere to see if this is the office of Dr X, but NOWHERE in the office does it tell you where you are--no doctor name, no listing of specialty, nothing to go on but that it looks kind of like some kind of waiting room.

So we are going to speak to the receptionist, but she is on the phone and acts like she doesn't see us. Ever. Finally, taking a GUESS that this MIGHT be Dr X's office, we sift through things outside the receptionist's glass window and find a sign-in sheet. So we write our names on there.

After waiting a while, I decide I should go to the restroom, as we have lots of errands to do. But there is no restroom. I walk all around the office. No restroom. I look out in the hall. Nope. I sit down again. Suddenly I see a sign that says "Evacuation Route" and Bill and I laugh at the pun in that. So I look at this sign, and I'm good at reading maps, and it shows that if you go to the first floor, there's a bathroom in the corner. I go there but find that it's been walled up or something. No bathroom anywhere.

So I come back to the waiting room. I go to the receptionist window to ask where the bathroom is, but now there is no one sitting there. In fact, there is no one evident in the whole office area. I stand there a long time but there's no one, no movement in back, no sound, no people, the phone isn't ringing, no other patients. Nothing.

So I lean in the window and over to the side, I can see a restroom. But to get to it, I have to go into the patient treatment area, through a door. Well, no one was there to ask, so I just walked in and went in the bathroom.

Ready for the bathroom? Think: truck stop.

Toilet paper all over the floor, an empty toilet paper roll on the wall, an empty hand towel dispenser beside the sink and a gerry-rigged paper towel dispenser nailed up on the wall.

OMG.

Why this wasn't enough to make us just leave I don't know.

When I come out of the restroom, I assume that Bill has been called into the treatment area because he isn't in the waiting room. I ask where he is and am told, "Somewhere in that direction." So I wander along and finally see him in a room. I take one step into the room to join him and a woman in the room goes, "We're not finished yet! Go out in the hall and sit down!"

Adding a whole new layer of what-the-dickens to the situation.

Finally, we are allowed to (both) enter an exam room where we wait for the doctor.

In comes the doctor.

Wow.

Okay. Nothing he is wearing would indicate he is a doctor. He's got on this green courduroy sports shirt and blue cotton slacks. No stethoscope. He looks like he just popped in from a nice luncheon somewhere.

Bedside manner? Not happening.

He says his name. No smiles, no chatter, no nothing. He listens to a short version of our story. Doesn't ask about the cancer, about the chemo, about what kind of chemo, about platelets, about anything except, "Are you taking aspirin? That can give you nosebleeds."

Um, what?

Bill goes, "I'm not having nosebleeds. It's blood pouring out of my nose for 3 weeks when I blow it. With clots."

"Clots are good," the doctor says. Bill and I exchange a brief look.

So then, to the best of my recollection, it goes like this. The doctor tips Bill's head back and looks in his nose with one of those regular nose-looking things that every doctor uses. He looks for approximately 4 seconds.

Then he was done. No questions, nothing. He's ready to pronounce his highly-trained specialist scientific findings:

"Dry air. The air gets dry in winter. When you blow your nose, you see blood. Happens to everyone. Maybe quit the aspirin. Buy some Afrin. Squirt it 4 times in each side. Shrinks the blood vessels. Okay, that's it. Any questions?"

I don't know if I was pale from shock or beet red from anger. Bill was pale. He looks at me, and I look back at him. My eyes are wide open as is my mouth. But I know Bill isn't going to complain, so it's up to Mama to get some bidness goin.

"Yes, I have a question," I begin. "Frankly, I am absolutely mystified. You are telling us that this man here, who has cancer, and is going through chemotherapy and has platelet issues, and a host of other issues, is going to get nothing more than this for an answer to why tons of blood and blood clots are suddenly, for the first time ever, gushing out of his nose day and night for three weeks, when in 65 years of life and almost as many dry winters, this has never, ever once happened before? You're telling him it's dry air? Are you considering possible tumors? Chemotherapy issues? Complications of his many medical conditions? And all that's happening is you're glancing into his nose and telling him the air is dry?"

"Well, nose tumors are rare, and I can't rule it out. So if it gets worse, come back. But you can't do anything about dry air except humidifiers. I see this all the time."

"You see people with blood gushing out of their noses day and night for 3 weeks, you see this all the time?"

"Dry air."

Oh man. My heart was pounding. I was so mad. But at this point the doctor--rather should I say "doctor"--dropped all eye contact and stopped talking, so we all exited the room in a very unpleasant silence.

When we got to the car, we could only vaguely mumble things like, "Did that just happen?" and "Are we in a Fellini movie" and "WHAT???????"

So there you have it. And I'm sure Medicare will get a hefty bill for this fine medical specialist's subtly nuanced professional investigation.

While we now know officially nothing about Bill's nose problem.

But we do know something about how to choose specialists in tiny mountain towns.

When you hear banjos, paddle faster.