Ode to the Otoscope

 

The otoscope was invented in 1363 by Guy de Chauliac, a French physician and barber. Today, medical professionals embrace this optical tool used to look into patient's orifices, most notably the ear. The secrets of the otoscope are held firmly by medical practitioners who make their bread and butter off this finely tuned instrument. As part of the Hippocratic Oath, doctors all over the world recite this pledge popularized in the movie Full Metal Jacket.

This is my otoscope.

There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My otoscope is my best friend.

It is my life.

Without me, my otoscope is useless.

Without my otoscope I am useless.

My friend Roger, a Yale educated emergency room physician, travels on family vacations with many medical instruments, the tools of his trade. Roger is the guy who is a legitimate keeper of the otoscope. He says it comes in handy. Every time he’s on an airplane, the captain invariably announces,

“Is there a doctor onboard who has one of those otoscope things?”

Roger is the guy you want in the ER should you wipe out on the highway or choke on a chicken bone since his expertise and skill are the only things that will get you on a bus ride home in lieu of brunch with Jesus. We travelled with Roger and his family many times. Once on vacation my ear was killing me. Roger pulled out his otoscope then told me I had an “effusion.” When I got back home, I went to my doctor and told him, 

“I have a contusion.”

“In your ear?”

“No, I mean an emulsion.”

“You mean an effusion?”

“Yeah, that.”

Anyway my wife, Christine, was so impressed she thought,

“I need to get me one of those otoscope things.”

And so she did.

A few months ago she purchased an otoscope from Amazon to assist with her mom diagnoses. Christine is a very do it yourself, get it done alpha type. Like the professor on Gilligan’s Island, she subscribes to the notion that if you want something done right, then do it yourself. She said,

“In twenty years everyone will have an otoscope thing.”

She might be onto something. The otoscope just might become the tweezers of tomorrow. Christine’s instrument came with a little chart complete with pictures, indicating a particular ear malady, perforation, infection, fluid, insect etc. She wasn’t sure what any of the structures were that she was looking at in the pictures or her otoscope, but she knew that if the blob to the lower left was pink and swollen, then your ear was infected. Armed with her finely tuned optical instrument, Christine embarked upon the rest of life diagnosing ear infections sans the time, money and bother all associated with an actual medical degree. Give a mom an otoscope, and she'll see the world as ears.

Against my advice our youngest, Willy, was probed first. Christine arrived at the conclusion that he had an ear infection in his left ear. After hauling Willy to the pediatrician, waiting an hour surrounded by coughing, puking kids, and parting with a $30 copay, she finally got Willy in to see his doctor. On the way home she called me to say,

“Ear infection just like I said.”

It’s a good thing she can’t write prescriptions. The other day, Willy wiped out on his bicycle. Christine was bandaging up his scrapes as I passed by the bathroom. When she finished patching him up, she whipped out her otoscope and checked his ears.

“What do you expect to find in there, the handlebars?”

“Just being thorough,” she explained.

She stuck the scope in my ear once and pulled so hard on my earlobe, I was sure that the light would emerge from the other side of my head. As she looked through the otoscope, she said,

"Ah, huh."

"What?"

"Looks like you got..."

"Scurvy?"

"No."

"A blown eardrum?"

"No."

"An above the knee effusion?"

Then it came in all its glory. The diagnosis that relays the important piece of information that may very well save my life. This is likely what Christine admires most about the otoscope, being in the know.

"Ear infection," she confidently decreed.

"Really? You don't even have to check the chart that came with that thing?"

"I know an ear infection when I see one.”

It didn't matter that I was not in secondary school nor prone to sticking things in my ears. Even though I was not surrounded by a cadre of nose picking tactile friends, Christine’s expert medical opinion was that I had an ear infection. She was so sure of herself. That’s how it happens. Doctor’s learn something in medical school and then confidently espouse that advice as fact for the rest of their life. They hate it when mere mortals like us read something on the internet that we offer during an exam.

“You know I read on WebMD that memory loss is associated with a turmeric deficiency.”

Truth is I hate that thing. Having someone who didn't take gross anatomy in college diagnose my maladies doesn't sit well with me. A tool is only as good as its user. Sure, Christine was right 100% of the time with her ear infection diagnoses even though she doesn’t have a medical degree and never stayed in a Holiday Inn Express.

In the end, she's just pre-screening our kids to help decide if we should schlep them in and part with the ever increasing copay. That's what the copay is for, you know, to dissuade you from using your health insurance. Insurance companies should, as a matter of policy, issue otoscopes as a means of avoiding the use of healthcare.

I suppose the otoscope thing can stay, but I'm putting my foot down if she wants a colonoscope.

Editor’s Note: Originally posted on November 7, 2017.