Don't Call Me "Honey"

I’ve had it with endearments from medical personnel. I plan (if I get up enough chutzpah) to have the following form (filled out, of course) attached to all my medical charts. Many hospitals already routinely do something similar to this, but I've not yet seen it in most of my medical facilities.  I welcome your suggestions:

My Name___________________________________________
Birth Date__________________________________________

I wish to be addressed by nurses or staff as_________________________.
I wish to be addressed by a physician as____________________________.

You may also call me  (Circled ones are fine; crossed-off may be offensive):

So what is it about my falling sick that invites some members of the medical community to talk to me as if I were six, call me “dear” and “honey”, or use the pronoun “we” to refer to me, not us. “Let’s get up on the table now,” says a patronizing bone density tech. “What, you’re getting up here with me?” I ask. She looks startled, so I explain that individuals who get called “we” are either in a medical facility and or in kindergarten.

Inappropriate familiarity sounds friendly, but the effect is often the opposite. My women friends and I find it far more impersonal than appropriate adult tone and language. “I feel objectified when medical personnel are use endearments with me,” complained one friend of mine.” “I feel diminished and unimportant,” said another a breast cancer survivor. “It raises my stress levels,” said a third. “But to complain might turn someone against me who can affect my life, which would stress me out even more.”

During my two and a half years as breast cancer survivor, advocate for friends in the hospital, and ten years as a hospice volunteer, I’ve observed some astonishingly unprofessional, insensitive bedside behavior. One of my own doctors, whose medical I.Q. is triple his personal one, dismisses half my questions with silence, a grunt or “I dunno.” I can’t fix someone like that.

But when I can effect change, I try. Recently, I watched a 40-something staff member burst cheerily into the room of an unconscious 80-year-old patient.  She introduced herself to a family member and me before shouting into the comatose patient’s ear a deafening string of endearments and baby talk very close to gitchi-gitchi-goo, kissing the patient, whom she'd never seen before, several times on the cheek.