I was working in a high brow part of town. The clinic was a children’s clinic and we had to battle daily with all sorts of spoilt brats who just made you feel like prescribing a spanking. Most of their parents were bored housewives who had been convinced to put aside their dreams to play ‘Trophy wife’. They often came in posh cars, chauffeur-driven, with nannies in tow. Designer bags, foreign accents, and high heels completed the look. Sometimes my boss would be so embarrassed by their revealing clothing, he would actually walk away.
This lady comes in with her son who has a fever. After examination, I make a diagnosis and prescibe anti-malarials.
“Let me call the gynaecologist who attended to me in London where he was born and the pediatrician who managed him” she quips, bringing out the latest smart phone. (This ‘baby’ is over 5 years old).
I smile indulgently. She calls someone and we chat.
“So are you sure he has malaria?” she asks.
I assure her that the laboratory tests could not be wrong.
“Give me the prescription; when next I travel abroad, I’ll get the drugs for him” she requests.
Dear reader, what should I tell her? Do you know anyone who goes to Russia or Dubai to buy anti-malarials?