The New Medical Care

OR Should Medicare Really Have "Care" in its Name?

Ugh . . .

I’m relatively healthy and in pretty good shape. Shape meaning “fit,” not that I have a good shape…that’s still a little—er—rounder than I’d like. I don’t spend a lot of time at doctors’ offices, but I do take a couple of meds which I’d rather not, but so far they’re keeping me maintained in the thyroid and blood pressure department. My lab numbers are usually in the green section of the graph: cholesterol, blood sugar, etc. and I’ve only recently had to start taking calcium because of some osteo-something. Not the bad one—I don’t think. But anyway, I’m good. Even so, when I do head into a doctor’s office for an annual appointment, even though I’m not a frequent visitor, I like to feel like the doc has some idea of who I am when I get there.

That was not the case this year at my annual GYN appointment this year.

My regular doctor—the one I’ve been seeing for about 25 years—retired this year, but before my regular appointment last year, he was out for some surgery of his own, so I saw a sub. This year, I figured I might as well stick with her since by the time my next appointment rolled around he’d be gone anyway, but when that time came to make the appointment, I was told she had left the practice. I could choose one of two others who were on staff. How to choose? I started going to the last guy when a friend told me he had saved her life and I thought that was a good skill in a doctor, so that’s how I chose him.

I finally picked one based on her education and confirmed my appointment. I only had to wait ten minutes or so and the new doc came in. She introduced herself and we chatted for a bit—she in her scrubs and me in a cotton gown open in the front. She must have been comfortable with that, because we chatted some more and she told me about how it was like to take care of her aging dad and showed me pictures of her kids and then she confided in me her anxiety about her big move to another medical practice in another state.

Wait. What?

She’s leaving, too? Is it me? After encouraging her about the move and assuring her that her kids will be fine as long as they know their parents are fine, we got around to my needs—a quick peek inside and a final good-bye. When I checked out, I asked about the tests that my former doc usually ordered for me, because of the cancer that apparently runs in my family. The receptionist said, “Do you want to schedule one?” I said, “I can just do that myself?” I wasn’t sure my insurance provider would let me make my own medical decisions—they barely let my doctor make them. Then I asked about the flu shot I usually get and she said, “Oh, we can’t do that because we’re understaffed.” Would I have to give myself my own flu shot too? I left so flustered I forgot to ask for the prescription I usually get each year—for Xanax. One prescription lasts me the entire year since I often forget I have it, but I could’ve used one that day.

I get that the medical profession has changed and we are at the mercy of a Machiavellian insurance industry, but it really feels like the care has changed too. I don’t feel like I get consistent, reliable care from anywhere anymore. The medical professionals I know personally feel the same way. Insurance has hamstrung the people who provide the care and have lined the pockets of the people who sell the insurance to cover it. Between the vagaries of insurance coverage, big practices buying up small practices and the way politicians use our health as a political tool for their own advantage, it’s a wonder we’re all living longer at all. But we do and have to pay a whole lot of money for the privilege.

Speaking of paying more money, it’s time for me to enroll in Medicare. Angelo is on it and he says it will be much better. Except I’m not retired and instead of taking the premium out of my Social Security, I’ll have to pay for it. And the supplemental insurance I’m going to need because well, I really don’t know why I need supplemental insurance. Why can’t Medicare do it? But I did get a notification that my application to Medicare was accepted. (Was there a chance it wouldn’t be?) And I’ll be covered starting next February, even though my current coverage expires at the end of December.

I better get my Xanax prescription filled.