As a doctor working in a primary health care setting, it’s become routine, almost expected, to hear patients ask for a drip. Sometimes it’s after they’ve listed their symptoms, sometimes they say it right after walking in: “Doctor, please just give me drip.” And often, the complaints aren’t serious. It could be catarrh, a mild fever, or even plain tiredness.

At first, I didn’t understand it. I’d look at the patient’s history, check their vitals, and everything would seem OK, nothing pointing toward dehydration or any real need for IV fluids. I’d try to explain, and I could already see the disappointment forming on their face. They didn’t want to hear about paracetamol or oral meds. They wanted something that, to them, looked like real treatment.

Over time, I started to notice a pattern. Most of these requests were coming from patients whose understanding of medical care had been shaped by community beliefs or informal advice. Many had grown up seeing IV fluids used in hospitals, often for the very sick. And somewhere along the line, a belief formed: a drip means you’re getting proper treatment.

To them, the IV line, the hanging bag, the slow drip into the vein all represent care, attention, urgency. Tablets, on the other hand, feel too casual. Some even believe the body doesn’t absorb oral medications as well. I’ve had a few patients say things like, “Those drugs won’t work fast unless you give me drip.”

What surprised me more was how strong that belief is. I’ve seen patients with mild illnesses leave upset because I didn’t give them a drip. I’ve also seen others try to convince nurses or even non-clinical staff to help them get it somehow. The insistence isn’t always loud, but it’s steady, like they truly believe we’re withholding something that could save them.

And here’s the tricky part: I understand where they’re coming from. Health education isn’t widespread. People lean on what they’ve seen or heard around them. Maybe someone they know recovered quickly after getting a drip. Maybe they’ve had one themselves and felt better after. That kind of experience stays with people.

Still, this belief causes problems. When patients insist on drips they don’t need, it puts a strain on the system. We aim to use medical resources responsibly, guided by clinical needs. Cannulas, giving sets, IV fluids — they’re not unlimited. The time it takes to set one up could be used for another patient who actually needs urgent care. And there are risks, too. Infections, fluid overload, and complications at the site. These things aren’t dramatic, but they do happen.

More than anything, though, I worry about the mindset. When people think of IV fluids as the ultimate solution, they miss the point of personalized care. They also risk becoming dependent on interventions that don’t actually help their condition. And once this mindset spreads, it becomes hard to undo.

I’ve stopped trying to shut it down immediately. These days, I take a bit more time. I ask them what they believe the drip will do. I explain how it works, stating that it’s mostly salt and water, and unless the body is lacking those things, it doesn’t offer much. Sometimes I use humor: “If I give you a drip for stress, your stress might just wait outside and come back later.” Some patients smile. Some still insist. But a few listen, really listen. And that’s where the work is. You don’t change these beliefs in one visit. Sometimes, they come back later and say, “Doctor, I didn’t get the drip that day, but I still felt fine.” When that happens, I feel a little relief. It means something shifted.

I think a big part of this is follow-up. When patients know they’ll see you again, they’re more likely to trust you the next time. It’s not about proving them wrong. It’s about building trust slowly, respectfully. Over time, that trust can challenge long-held assumptions.

There are still days I hear the usual line — “Doctor, please just give me drip.” But now, I don’t sigh as much. I see it for what it is: not just a request for fluids, but a sign that we still have a long way to go with health education. It reminds me that part of our job, especially in primary care, is not just diagnosis and prescriptions, but also helping people unlearn what they think they know.

And so, I keep explaining. I keep listening. Because one conversation won’t change much, but a series of conversations just might.

Akintola Aminat Olayinka is a physician.