Why I let my doctor scam me: a private medical experience in Singapore
The symptoms were the same every time I attempted to run: tight pain on the outer right knee that crammed an inner ligament and jammed the whole operation. For the past four months, despite being an avid long distance runner, I couldn’t even get more than 100 meters down the street. And so I did what we would all do in that situation: I turned to Google.
I typed in my symptoms and right away came across the culprit that stuck best: ITBS, or IT band syndrome. Also known as runner’s knee. Google to the rescue, once again.
“Ow! Damn! The side of my knee hurts!”
— every single IT band syndrome victim ever
The weeks following my Google diagnosis I turned to various self-medication techniques: a little stretching here, some squatting there, and lots and lots of foam rolling everywhere. But, all it took was a long-haul flight cramped in economy to put me out again and have me limping back to square one. I felt defeated. Nay, I was defeated.
It was then that I let my partner — a long time sufferer of knee issues himself — convince me to visit a man that makes him run like a chicken darting across hot coals in the name of proper form, a.k.a his physiotherapist. Everyone claims he works magic on knees. However, to get this magician to see me I would need a doctor’s referral. And therein begins The Scam:
One fine morning I find myself for the first time at Mount Elizabeth. The Doctor (keeping it vague here) looks like an utter pro. I deduce this from the many pictures hanging around his office of various athletes and famous people with big, confident, ear-to-ear smiles post surgeries and interventions.
The Doctor begins a sensible examination of my left knee. Then the right. He bends them this way and that. And he concludes the parts work well, save for a little thing called the IT band. Right, I already knew that. Google already told us that weeks ago. But I listened patiently, feigning ignorance, playing along so that he could finish his summation and hand me my referral.
“I don’t expect there’s anything seriously wrong with your knee,” he repeats in conclusion, beaming at me his expert smile.
I know. It’s just a goddam IT band. Give me my referral.
“But,” he continues in almost the same breath and expertise, “I suggest we do an MRI anyways just to be sure.”
Huh?
As a Canadian, I have to admit, I’m not used to being pampered by doctors and handed the whole list of services. If anything, I feel like the direct opposite is true. So, maybe it turns us into hypersensitive patients that recognize when our doctors are going above and beyond the list of required procedures.
Is that even medically necessary?
— Every single Canadian in a hospital ever
And that’s when it hits me: I’m being scammed. Or to be more precise, my private medical insurance provider (name withheld for fear of losing them) is being scammed.
I looked the Doc straight in the face. Ear-to-ear smile. Providing unnecessary services for the benefit of insurance money is a thing they do. And I realize then that this Doc knows the game as much as any other in the private system. So, in those few seconds between his pause and my awaited answer I calculated my response.
Note: It’s important to mention here that not once did the Doc ever say to me, “You have a choice.” A short and yet powerful statement. Informing the patient they have a choice to choose a procedure, or not. Nor did he ever weigh in on the benefits of doing the MRI, or not. Money was also never mentioned. And that’s a big problem, because MRIs aren’t cheap.
Instead, in those brief moments of silence where he awaited my “yes” or “no”, I was forced to do the calculations myself.
Cost: I knew there was nothing majorly wrong with my knee. Nothing MRI-worthy. He knew it. Heck, even Google knew it. And I knew it would cost a pretty penny to go through with it. And, most importantly, I knew that’s exactly why he wanted me to do it.
Benefit: I’ve never had an MRI before. And hopefully never will again in the future. Plus, insurance is paying. I hope.
I swallowed. At the tip of my tongue the question of what cut he would get from the insurance was begging to be asked. Instead, what came out was, “Alright, let’s do it.” Suddenly, I was beaming with the thought of enjoying a unique experience paid for by my insurance. (How fickle the ardor of a whistleblower can be.)
Immediately after I was whisked a few floors down to the radiologists where my once-in-a-lifetime experience awaited me. I undressed. Put on a gown. Laid down. Turned to the radiologist and remarked as he prepped my right knee to be bombarded by magnets, “The music is nice.”
He looked at me oddly. I pointed to the air as if willing sound waves to appear.
“That’s the machine,” he grimaced and left me to contemplate the deep beats. No one has ever told me before that MRI machines at rest have these beautiful, hypnotic beats. (Or maybe, I’m the only one who feels that way because I’m here with the beast for a medically unnecessary procedure.) Pew pew chew pew pew chew, it rocked as I was inched into its hollow core.
I wondered if the radiologists ever danced, when lonely, to the beats of their machines.
Then another noise came, one that filled my body with vibrations top to bottom. Suddenly, undst tsew undst tsew completely droned out Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” playing into my headphones. (Which begs the question: why do they even bother playing soothing music if you can’t even hear it?) And yet despite the deafening cacophony of sound, I even managed to catch a snooze. How is that so, you ask? So it was. Undst tsew undst tsew.
Once finished, I was handed printed x-rays of my knee. The Doctor never even looked at them because he had a nice thing called a computer. (I reckon x-ray printouts are just souvenirs, for keepsake.) The Doc proceeded to show me the insides of my knee in grays and blacks and other such hues I’d never seen it in before. It looked completely foreign to me, like it’s own system, independent from mine. And he kept exclaiming that it was a fine piece of machinery, just as he had suspected. How proud I was then!
“A beautiful example of rich cushion here,” he beamed at me, as if congratulating me on a fine baby I’d just birthed.
Then, he shows me one image with a brilliant white substance running along my outer right knee. “This,” he says, “is liquid. And it tells us this area is inflamed. Just as I had suspected, your IT band is stressed.” HURRAH! He smiled a self-congratulatory smile. Shook my hand. Booked me in for a check-up in four months time. Then passed me on to his secretary who handed me a bill.
$1,308.00
I cringed. My insurance policy is that I have to pay upfront and wait for refunds. After I’ve handed over my credit card I send a quick text to my partner,
“Man, I really hope health insurance covers all this...”
Too late anyways. I’m already walking out the door, the faded beat of an MRI machine stuck in my head, pew pew chew pew pew chew.
Then I remember it, what I’d come here for in the first place. I turn to the receptionist and ask, “The referral letter?”
“The Doctor will email you.”
undst tsew undst tsew.
Thankfully, my insurance paid.
undst tsew.
One day I’ll be a whistleblower. Until then, I’m looking forward to more of these medical exploratory trips.
