Changing Doctors

When you reach your seventies, doctors begin to take on increasing importance in your life. You find yourself making more doctors' appointments than ever before and being poked and prodded or at least inspected by a wider range of medical specialists for a wider range of reasons.

In my case, I learned a few years ago that I have an unusual aorta (of all things) that leaves me vulnerable to a possible (but not probable) internal explosion. Luckily, the problem seems well under control, thanks to my adding two different cardiologists to my poking, probing, and inspecting team. I am advised by one of the cardiologists not to lift anything weighing more than 60 pounds, if I can avoid it. Luckily, I was already avoiding lifting such weights, other than my own bulky body, for most of my life.

Then there is the oncologist I visited regularly for 10 years but have now thankfully left in my wake. And the dental specialist who has filled my mouth in recent years with a number of costly implanted platinum teeth. And the endocrinologist who is monitoring the third of my thyroid still inside my body. And the eye surgeon who removed a cataract. And the orthopedist who discovered that several of my vertebrae are closer to each other than is optimal. And the chiropractor and physical therapist who are helping to deal with that problem. And the podiatrist who determined that I have something called a Morton’s neuroma on my right arch that has led to my wearing wider shoes and sometimes inserting special pads into them for soft support.

You get the point. It seems that it takes a medical village to keep me going as well as I am from day to day and year to year. The problem is that my medical village is going to be inhabited by a lot of new citizens this year and going forward, which is a little disconcerting. It takes time and effort to pick doctors you trust and feel comfortable with. I think I have made good choices for the most part, and I was feeling pretty satisfied with my choices. Then the village came under attack in the past year. Both of my cardiologists left for good reasons that had nothing to do with me, I am assured, but both had to be replaced. My dentist is in the process of retiring, but fortunately I like his current partner.

My medical village team huddles up .

Then, last month, I received the most crushing blow. My general practitioner, whom I really like and who has been cheering me on as I have lost weight in the past year, has received a promotion within his large multi-doctor practice, and is no longer seeing lowly patients such as I. The office “organizer” called me earlier this week to help me choose a replacement. She offered me two likely choices within the same practice, one male and one female. That’s all I knew about them for now to help me make my choice. She did offer one “helpful” suggestion: one of the doctors (the male) is more experienced with geriatric medicine, she noted. “I hope I am not there,” I said with an ironic laugh. She didn’t challenge that contention, as she laughed along with me.

But as I think about it, I am not getting any younger, and I am hopefully going to be in need of geriatric expertise sometime in the future. So that is the doctor I will be seeing for my next physical in May, if my doddering bones can get me to his office.

Many years ago, Audrey’s first boss told her the secret of choosing a new dentist or doctor. “Choose one who is younger than you and will be around for a long time. You don’t want to outlive him or her,” he said. Or outlast them, I might add.

I am not really looking forward
to my geriatric years.