The Old Lady and the Whippersnappers

Moving from one city to another necessitates finding new doctors and all manner of support people.

So far, and it’s less than one year ago that we moved, I like the optometrist doc and the dermatologist. Each is similar in age to me, and quite conversational - verging on over-interested and flirting with me!(?) At least, I feel seen, heard, and attended to in the areas of eyes and skin.

The young whippersnapper GP, who I believe pretends to be more of an expert than he is about bio-identical hormones and life in general, is my least favorite new support person. I keep trying to find a reason to stay in his practice other than it’s a drag to start over and search-out qualified practitioners who provide what I'm accustomed to receiving. Because he has two different practices two doors down from one another in the same building, I sometimes get lost in the informational black hole between the two doors. “No, sorry, you’ll have to call the other office for that information." or "You'll have to make an appointment at the other office to discuss this with Dr. K.”

Unlike having two different docs for skin and eyes, I’d like my primary care doc to consider me a whole person whose body cannot be compartmentalized into hormone system and the rest of the bod. I distinctly dislike feeling as if I’m being had because I must make separate appointments to have all my parts checked. Medicare covers some parts, but not others. So, for now, I’m paying for gas and wear and tear on my car and calendar, in order to be seen as a part-filled whole person in this fellow’s practice. Bummer.

What I have to ask myself is this: What’s it going to be like in twenty years, when all the docs who are my age now are long retired, and all medical personnel look like whippersnappers? Will I be able to trust that they know what they’re doing? Will I be an impossible old lady with un-reachable standards?

I remember my Grammy Stern being so kind, sweet, and easy-going at every appointment. I remember my mother out-living most of her health-care-providers.

Maybe in twenty years, the Star Trek vision of Dr. Bones McCoy’s little cell-phone-size scanner will be a reality, and this pondering will be a moot point.

I’m hoping I can remain civil to all folks, no matter their age, experience, or business practices. Just remind me that I don’t need to stick around if the practice doesn’t suit me.