“OK kids, it’s time to go.” And so, after an obligatory scuffle about who would co-pilot, my siblings and I piled into the car and settled in for the 60-mile trip to see the pediatrician for our annual back-to-school physicals and immunizations. I was a seventh grader the last time I saw that doctor in his office following a freak run-in with a school locker door.
But my experiences with that fellow set a life pattern for interactions with physicians and other medical personnel. Sure, they’re professionals who can, and do, share their expertise. But they’re also real people who enjoy personal relationships. and many who I have considered to be friends throughout my life.
And oh, how I’ve accumulated many great friends over the decades.
In my early 20s I even dated a handful of those dashingly handsome and intellectual geniuses. Dancing. Dining. Seeing theater productions. Enjoying festivals. Riding in exquisite cars with genuine leather interiors.
Once I not only left a Chicago emergency room with my roommate who had her hand stitched back together, but also with a date for the next night with the emergency room doc who treated her.
As the decades passed, I admit to becoming more discriminating. The friendships remained, but those formed only after dedicated study, research and referrals before even meeting the professionals. I’ve treasured knowing all those people, mostly because I chose them.
After all, getting to know them was not a happenstance sort of thing. I have been proud of my ability to be discerning and accumulate friends who treated middle age maladies with professionalism and reassured me that all would be just fine. I stuck with them. They stuck with me. For years.
And then life nudged its way into the next phase. The universe had different plans for me. “Get out there. Make new friends,” it began shouting. There was no preamble. No yellow flashing warning light. Usually, it’s just been a non-descript plain white envelope that arrived via USPS.
The notes, if there is a note, all start pretty much the same way. “I’ve so enjoyed working with you,” they say. “But after 30 (or however many years), it’s time for me to: move on / retire / spend time with my family / travel / accept the dream position in research …” There must be an AI form somewhere with checkboxes that physicians use to find just the right breakup phrase to make them believe they’re letting their patients down easily.
Breaking up was easier a few years ago. But it’s getting harder and harder.
Now I scream “NOOOOO!!!!” even before I open the envelopes. “Really. I like you just fine. You know me. You don’t have to read my chart. You know I’m married. You know I have a grown daughter. You know I had a bunionectomy when I was 45.”
One by one, you’re all deserting me. I’m either more of a physical wreck than I want to believe, or I’ve not been as astute in choosing friends as I thought I was. In the past seven years, I’ve lost eight old-time friends – from four specialists to two physical therapists and two office receptionists who knew me by name – and I’m pretty sure there’s one more waiting in the wings to do the same thing. That’s a higher loss rate than hair stylists!
So now, instead of making another new friend whose name might be Debby or Karen or Brian or Joe (all those good old popular 50s names) I’ll stare into the eyes of someone who looks young enough to be my grandchild whose name could be Willow or Sophia or Lucas or Elijah.
I’ll sigh. Really hard. And when I get home and others ask, “How did it go?” I’ll be able to look them in the eye and say,
“It was great. I made another new friend today.”