Something's wrong, but is it you or me?

There's something wrong. I'm not sure what, but it's getting worse.

Scene 1.
"I've got a sore throat" said Marcello. "How long has it been sore?" I asked. "Since last night" answered Marcello. "Well, I can get you some pain killers" I offered. "I don't want no damned pain killers, I want it fixed" the quiet calm of the school health centre was torn apart as Marcello jumped off the chair and began walking out the clinic. "That's all you do, give me pain killers. I want it fixed." I sat still, refusing to chase after Marcello, and refusing to explain to him again how illnesses and viruses work. He left the health center, late again for class.

Scene 2.
"I've got a sore knee" Murray had rolled up his trouser leg and I was examining a very normal, healthy, strong looking knee. "How long has it been sore" I asked. Murray took a moment to think things through "Well, maybe a year, on and off. If a do a lot of sport it hurts, but if I rest it I'm fine" he explained. "Is it sore right now, right this minute" I asked. "Well no" he confessed. "Well, what do you want me to do with it?" Murray's brow creased in thought, but he couldn't come up with an answer. "I don't know, just curious what's wrong with it."

Scene 3.
"I need some antibiotic cream, and a band aid" said Michelle. I looked hard at her forearm, trying to see where she had cut herself. "Oh, you'll need more than that, I think I'll have to take you to see the doctor" I said. "Really... Thank goodness I came to see you then" Michelle sounded almost happy. My attempt at sarcasm had gone way over her head. "No Michelle. I can't even see your cut. I can't see any blood. I can't see any bruise. I can't see a thing, and if there was something that needed a bandaid, I wouldn't go putting any cream on it." Michelle argued with me for several more minutes before she finally left the health center.

Scene 4.
"I want an x-ray" demanded James. At six foot three he was the tallest fifteen year old in the school and as I sat there staring up at the full height of him, I felt almost threatened. "But you don't need an x-ray" I replied. "My back is sore, it's been sore for three days. I need an x-ray." I motioned for James to sit down, sick of craning my neck. James had been weight training three days ago, and he had been doing some heavy bench presses when he had felt a twinge under his left shoulder blade. The pain wasn't bad. "Are you in pain now?" I asked. "No, but it's sore when I work out. Mum said I need an x-ray. I'm insured, and I have the right to an
x-ray." I'm sure he must be mimicking his mother's words.

I had already explained that he needed to give the weights a rest, but he wanted something that could make him get back training straight away. "An x-ray won't show anything, and it won't stop you from being sore when working out. You need to rest" James' scowl deepened, it was like talking to a brick wall. "You don't have the right to an x-ray either. Your mum doesn't tell me what to do, and I'm not going to expose you to unnessary radiation." James ended up storming out of my office, talking furiously into his cellphone. I subsequently ignored his mother's vicious email and hung up on her when she began yelling down the phone.

Conclusion
I swear I wasn't this like this when I was a teenager. I wasn't soft. When I sprained an ankle, I acutally believed you had to walk on it straight away until the pain went away. It worked. Maybe I'm getting old, maybe I'm getting tired of handing out needless bandaids. Maybe I need a change of scene, some genuine sick people to make me feel better. I wonder if this is what every generation feels. Is this what those of my parents generation felt, frustration at the spoilt, pampered generation that came after them?