I Have White Coat Syndrome

White coat syndrome is when a person goes to see a doctor and their blood pressure soars when someone in a white coat cuffs them. 

My mother had a fear of doctors. My father had a fear of my mother. He had a white-face syndrome. When she walked into the room, he would turn pale white.   My folks left no monetary inheritance.  But I did inherit my fear of white coats from them. I’ve even been known to run out of bakeries.  

My mother thought doctors were money-suckers. If my parents gave me cash for my birthday, she would say, “Spend it on yourself before the doctors get their hands on it.” When I was 8 years old, that made zero sense. As I got older, I could see some truth in her words.  After all, if you were alive in the 1920s, ‘30s, and ’40s, the cure for many diseases was a slow, lingering death. It seems to me to be very similar to being married to a Kardashian or being forced to watch 27 hours of “House Hunters” in a row. 

The whole doctor experience to me is scary and very one-sided. 

First, the nurse tells you to get undressed and that the doctor will be in soon.  Jokingly I always want to say, “You go first.”  But in this litigious day and age, that’s highly ill-advised. However, I think if doctors came into the room wearing only their Skivvies, it might even out the playing field. When I suggested that on my doctor’s office chat board, they quickly refunded my $2,500 concierge fee. 

Plus, most doctors hardly ever give you their cell phone numbers. So, if you call after hours, you must tell the answering service the color of your stool or the thickness of your sputum.  

Locked in a room with a blood pressure cuff, rubber gloves, and a Norman Rockwell print of “Before the Shot” (where the kid’s pants are pulled down so he can get poked in the tush) is not calming. If you’ve ever brought a dog to the veterinarian’s office, that’s me. Scared, shivering, and in need of a pat on the head for reassurance. 

But the truth is, it’s not the doctor’s fault that I’m in a state of fight or flight. My fears start way before I see the white coat. The doctor, to me, is just the messenger to confirm the scenario I’ve created in my overanxious head.  When I get sick, I think, “That’s it.  I’m a goner.”  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve buried myself with just a post-nasal drip. Unless I can trace a stomachache to too much broccoli, I’m convinced it is pancreatic cancer.

My parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins would drum up horrible scenarios about their health. Almost all of them are now dead. So eventually, they were proven right.

I come from a family of drummers. My parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins would drum up horrible scenarios about their health. Almost all of them are now dead. So eventually, they were proven right. They would also claim that their spouses or children were killing them. “Keep that up and I’ll have a heart attack.”  I remember my uncle once saying to my aunt, “Do you want me to have another stroke?” She remained stumm (silent).  “Nice answer.”  He would reply.  

I also think doctors have healthy secrets that they don’t share with the rest of us. I remember once asking my doctor who his doctor was. I figured his doctor knows what my doctor knows plus knows what he knows. Funny, but he didn’t answer me.  But my doctors hardly ever seem to get sick. If I’m within a mile of someone who sneezes, I catch it. I’ve never called my doctor’s office and been told, “After you coughed in Dr. Smith’s face, she slipped into a coma.” (Why do people only slip into a coma? Nobody runs, rolls, or glides into a coma.) 

At the end of the day, I believe God makes the ultimate decisions about our fate of who lives and who dies.  I just wish God would help me pay my monthly healthcare premiums. Because if I lose my insurance, it’s witch doctor time.  The good news is that I’ve never seen a witch doctor in a white coat.

Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer, and host of the ‘You Don’t Know Schiff’ podcast. His new book is “Why Not? Lessons on Comedy, Courage and Chutzpah.