At the university, where they used a higher resolution x-ray to scan the lungs, I was told I had a spot/mass in my lung that needed to be examined. So off to a pneumologist.
He was an older man, very much old school. This was in the early 70s, when young men wore their hair long and were hence considered irresponsible and hippy freaks, especially university students.
Anyway, he diagnosed me with tuberculosis, prescribed specific antibiotics. After a year when nothing changed re the size of the spot/mass in my lung he scheduled me for a bronchoscopy. This in 1973. He made a big production of it, instructed for an overnight stay, IV in the arms, probably gave me valium or some such and also something containing atropine to stop the flow of saliva and then had me rolled into the exam room as if I were going into surgery, glasses off, covered with a white sheet and the whole enchilada.
My heart was beating a mile a minute from the atropine prep and I absolutely choked on the bronchoscope, coughing, dry-coughing and panicking to no end. He couldn't get the bronchoscope in, it seemed I couldn't breathe. I suppose I went into panic.
Then he quit, threw the instrument down and accused me of being a longhaired, drug addict, agitator and hippy and what not. All the typical complaints that older folk had against youngsters in the early 1970s. He stormed out of the room and I never saw him again.
The attending nurse was flabbergasted and consoled me as best she could as I was truly freaking out, shaking and almost unable to breathe. When I got calmed down I told her I never drank alcohol, didn't smoke and certainly no drugs. I hardly even took aspirin then.
In any case, that old pneumologist really blew up at me in a very unprofessional manner to say the least. Another doctor came to see me, but all I wanted was to get out of the hospital. Which I did.