When I was a kid, you went to the doctor when something was wrong.
You broke your arm.
You needed stitches.
You had a fever that wouldn’t quit.
Otherwise, you pretty much went about the business of living your life.
My parents didn’t have a cardiologist, an endocrinologist, a dermatologist and a collection of specialists whose names required their own address book.
They had a family doctor.
They knew his name.
They saw him when they needed him.
That was normal.
Today I teach people mostly in their sixties and seventies, and sometimes I listen to them talk before class.
One has a dermatologist appointment.
Another just saw the cardiologist.
Someone has bloodwork tomorrow.
Someone else is waiting for imaging.
Then there’s the follow-up appointment for the appointment they had last week.
I’m not making fun of them.
These are people I care about.
But sometimes I stand there listening and think:
When did being responsible for your health start requiring this many appointments?
I don’t have a simple answer.
And…
