<p>In the days when A J Cronin’s and Richard Gordon’s novels about doctors were favourite reads, we always expected that the doctor would come calling whenever needed, when the patient was too ill to go in person. Doctors coming for home visits was common too. We had them classified according to their fees, which ranged from Rs 8 all the way to Rs 64 and according to the degree of seriousness of the complaint, a suitable doctor was chosen. Often, they enjoyed a cup of tea and a chat and after a cursory ‘breathe in…breathe out,’ and then they would set off for the next house, for another cup of tea and sympathy.</p>.<p>We had one doctor visit us regularly to administer injections to my mother-in-law, who made no bones about his ‘busy-ness.’ With his bush-shirt unbuttoned and his stethoscope flapping and slapping on his chest, he gave us a quick greeting as he prepared the injection while the family prepared the spot it would go into. And it was done. All this while his car bubbled and frothed outside our gate. Rs 10 was his fees, kept ready to be thrust into his bag, and he was gone.</p>.<p>Another doctor had his clinic in a small garage close to our home. As children we were fascinated by the laboratory with bottles and jars of colourful liquids and strange smells and went there often. His panacea for all ills was a good draught of one of those mixtures and we came home grimacing, thankful not to have been given a jab.</p>.<p>How different it is now.</p>.<p>The doctor says s/he will see you for a conference consultation. That does sound important but fraught with unforeseen hurdles for the likes of us. “Please pay the amount and send us a screen shot,” says the distant voice. I thought screen shots were for trying out for a role in a movie! “I am a senior citizen and can’t handle this on the phone,” I plead. Can’t I pay any other way?</p>.<p>Apparently the system has no flexibility, and isn’t aware that there are humans who have a different kind of brain. She will see what can be done and meanwhile I am on hold…I am on hold and can no longer remember why I asked for a consultation and wish I had not.</p>.<p>I call in for reinforcements. My granddaughter offers to ‘walk’ me through the process. Unfortunately her phone and mine seem to be from different planets and they cannot communicate. Sensing our desperation, she says she will walk over in reality.</p>.<p>What a relief! There is a hi-tech exchange between her and the doctor’s desk. Could it be a break-through in the system? Not quite but a compromise is reached. It is now four hours since the process began. The phone lights up! “The doctor will call you now. Be ready please,” says the voice. I weakly reply, “Sorry, I am too tired to talk now.”</p>
<p>In the days when A J Cronin’s and Richard Gordon’s novels about doctors were favourite reads, we always expected that the doctor would come calling whenever needed, when the patient was too ill to go in person. Doctors coming for home visits was common too. We had them classified according to their fees, which ranged from Rs 8 all the way to Rs 64 and according to the degree of seriousness of the complaint, a suitable doctor was chosen. Often, they enjoyed a cup of tea and a chat and after a cursory ‘breathe in…breathe out,’ and then they would set off for the next house, for another cup of tea and sympathy.</p>.<p>We had one doctor visit us regularly to administer injections to my mother-in-law, who made no bones about his ‘busy-ness.’ With his bush-shirt unbuttoned and his stethoscope flapping and slapping on his chest, he gave us a quick greeting as he prepared the injection while the family prepared the spot it would go into. And it was done. All this while his car bubbled and frothed outside our gate. Rs 10 was his fees, kept ready to be thrust into his bag, and he was gone.</p>.<p>Another doctor had his clinic in a small garage close to our home. As children we were fascinated by the laboratory with bottles and jars of colourful liquids and strange smells and went there often. His panacea for all ills was a good draught of one of those mixtures and we came home grimacing, thankful not to have been given a jab.</p>.<p>How different it is now.</p>.<p>The doctor says s/he will see you for a conference consultation. That does sound important but fraught with unforeseen hurdles for the likes of us. “Please pay the amount and send us a screen shot,” says the distant voice. I thought screen shots were for trying out for a role in a movie! “I am a senior citizen and can’t handle this on the phone,” I plead. Can’t I pay any other way?</p>.<p>Apparently the system has no flexibility, and isn’t aware that there are humans who have a different kind of brain. She will see what can be done and meanwhile I am on hold…I am on hold and can no longer remember why I asked for a consultation and wish I had not.</p>.<p>I call in for reinforcements. My granddaughter offers to ‘walk’ me through the process. Unfortunately her phone and mine seem to be from different planets and they cannot communicate. Sensing our desperation, she says she will walk over in reality.</p>.<p>What a relief! There is a hi-tech exchange between her and the doctor’s desk. Could it be a break-through in the system? Not quite but a compromise is reached. It is now four hours since the process began. The phone lights up! “The doctor will call you now. Be ready please,” says the voice. I weakly reply, “Sorry, I am too tired to talk now.”</p>