Doctors & Mechanics: Why Do We Just Believe Them?

Doctors and mechanics.

Why do we trust them so deeply, almost blindly? I mean, seriously—what is that?

Like, the other day I went to the mechanic to get my winter tires switched out. Routine. And then—of course—something else was apparently wrong. Always something. They gave me a quote, hundreds of dollars, parts and labour. And my immediate reaction now? Suspicion. I don’t believe them anymore—not right away. I asked for a second opinion, which I’ve learned to do now. And surprise, surprise—the second place found the same problem. Quotes were only like $20 apart. So I went with the cheaper one. Got it fixed.

But the thing is—I didn’t see the issue. I didn’t feel it. It’s not like my steering wheel was falling off. It was all internal, hidden. They told me something was wrong, and I had to take their word for it. And after they fixed it? Still nothing I could see or feel myself. Just a receipt.

That’s what’s weird. There have been so many times with mechanics where I don’t actually experience the problem or the solution. No weird sounds, no funky brakes, nothing I can confidently say, “Yes, this is the thing they fixed.” And yet… I pay. I pay because I’m told it’s necessary. That trust—it’s built into the whole thing. And I’m not saying they were lying. I’m just saying: I can’t prove it either way.

And then I think about doctors. And it’s the same thing.

Like the other day, I went to a new doctor—my old one retired, and she was so good, so thoughtful. This new guy? I hated the first appointment. Just bad energy. And I feel like I need to find a new doctor again, but good luck with that. It’s a whole thing now to get a family doctor. So I’m stuck.

I went in trying to explain this pain I’ve had. Not new. I’ve had ultrasounds done—twice. Nothing showed up. But the pain hasn’t gone away. And I just… don’t know how to explain it. My vocabulary doesn’t work for this. I say “pain,” but it’s not sharp. It’s not screaming pain. It’s just there. Persistent. Numbing. Beneath the surface. I feel it but I can’t describe it.

And then when I try to tell this doctor, he’s impatient. Cuts me off. Asking questions like he’s going through a checklist. Not actually listening. Eventually he examines me and says, “Well, it’s not tender.” Yeah—I know it’s not tender! That’s not how the pain works! But it’s like… the whole vibe I got from him was, “Huh. This is hard. I don’t know. Let’s move on.”

And I left that appointment with no clear answers. No clear plan. Just a new assignment: track your blood pressure for seven days. And I’m like—what? I’ve never had blood pressure problems. Ever. He took it three times. 127, 130-something… nothing outrageous. Slightly elevated maybe. But come on—if anything, it was the stress from that appointment. From him.

And I told him that. I said I’ve never had issues. Did he even look at my file? I don’t think he did. And now I’m supposed to go buy a blood pressure machine and track this thing that’s likely not even the real problem?

But he ordered blood tests too, for the original pain I guess. Maybe a scan after these results? So I’m waiting again. Just hoping someone takes it seriously. Because people die from doctors brushing them off. Negligence. Gaslighting. Telling you it’s in your head.

And maybe that’s why I keep coming back to this idea of doctors and mechanics. They both deal with systems I don’t fully understand—things that operate under the surface. I bring them my problem, I try my best to describe it, and then… I just have to trust that they get it. But what happens when they don’t?

I keep thinking about when my mom was sick. Lung issues. A “mystery” despite being surrounded by lung “specialists.” They kept saying, “It’s not cancer.” Over and over. Ran all the tests. “Not cancer.” Two weeks of that. Then suddenly—she needs surgery. They open her up, and then they say, “Oh actually… it is cancer. Stage 4. It’s too late. We can’t do anything.”

They just closed her up. That was it.

I remember thinking—how are we supposed to believe them now? First it’s not cancer. Then it is. And we have no way of knowing what’s true. No way to verify. They said she had surgery, and I was like—did she? Like, how do I even know that’s true? That’s how far my trust had eroded.

My mom’s friend, who was a nurse or something in the field, was in the room. She checked the incision. Just to be sure. And I was relieved to know that something was done. But even then—how sad is it that I needed proof they even touched her?

Some doctors talk like they’re gods sometimes. Like they know everything. One of the surgeons on my mom’s team was honest. He told us, “I’ll do my best. But I’m human. There are limits.” That meant something to me. He was real.

But the ones who don’t listen, who act like they’re above being wrong—that’s when harm happens. That’s when people walk away in pain. Deflated. With no answers. No plan. More confusion.

So yeah… here I am. Still trying to figure out what’s going on with my body. Still trying to find the right words to describe something I can feel but can’t explain. And hoping the people who are supposed to help actually listen. Actually care.

And mechanics—well, at least they give you a receipt.