I am 72 years old. I see a lot of different doctors.

When this doctor stuff all started, I would get frustrated with the medical intrusions into my life. Now though, I sort of view these visits as a cornerstone to my social life.

My general, family practice doc is a nice, quirky fellow. He’s old school. He takes time with his patients – which is really nice, but he’s always running an hour behind schedule. His staff brings you into one of the examination rooms and you sit there until you eventually get up and start reading the information posters on the walls regarding one of the many conditions that might eventually be listed as your cause of death. Of course these posters are all provided by a pharmaceutical company that has just the solution to what might ail you.

I like this doc’s way of doing things better than the previous young man that used to see me. That fellow never looked away from the computer screen as he documented my answers to his questions. I used to tell my wife that I could have grown a third eye in the middle of my forehead and he wouldn’t have noticed it. It is the way they are trained these days. On the bright side, and I’m not sure when they told the new doctors to stop doing it, but it is much more pleasant now to go to these younger doctors and not have them tell me to drop my pants and assume the position as they put vaseline on their examination gloves. The last time I remember that happening was around 1997 and I told that doctor that we’re going to need a couple glasses of wine together before we do that again.

I’ve been a Type II diabetic for many years now and this has contributed to the expansion of my medical social life. Although my cholesterol is way, way, way low, I do have a heart doc because they say I should have a heart doc. I see her once a year. She asks a couple questions, looks at my blood tests which show no concern other than an elevated A1C, and then stares at me like a vulture looking at potential roadkill.

After the last visit with my family doctor/general practitioner, that quirky fellow, he suggested I see the new nutritionist in his office. I figured he created another revenue stream for his practice and since he wasn’t lubricating his fingers and asking me to bend over, well, maybe I would see his nutritionist.

Generally speaking, I prefer doctors and nutritionist who are overweight and perhaps chain smokers too. I figure they can relate better to me. I went to one nutritionist years ago, but she was skinny/skinny. We didn’t hit it off.

This new nutritionist is cool though. She loves potatoes and Mexican food. I love potatoes and Mexican food too and we did hit it off. I went back for my follow up appointment with her today. After following her recommendations, my average blood sugar levels were much improved and she was almost giddy about it. I figure she doesn’t get a lot of positive results because our food habits are often controlled by deep emotional issues. I know mine are.

I was always very slim growing up and this created a problem playing sports. I was good at most sports and often found myself playing positions, especially in football, that I had no business playing. My gaining weight was a big topic of conversation in our household and it was a household not necessarily basing actions upon the latest scientific evidence. One day, dad told me I needed to eat a lug of peaches before he came home from work. There are approximately 44 large peaches in a field lug. I ate ’em all. I actually lost weight the next day for reasons that probably don’t need an explanation.

I remember being so happy when I finally weighed 150 pounds. I was ecstatic when I reached 165 pounds. I felt like a grown man. I looked pretty good too. At 175 pounds, my pants were not so comfortable, but I was happy to be at 175. When I hit 200 pounds, even though athletic activities like walking and breathing were starting to get more difficult, there was something about that magic number. I eventually weighed 274 pounds.

Today, I’m around 215 pounds and I thought this new nutritionist might help me get to under 200. As we concluded our appointment and discussions regarding the miracle of fiber in our diet, she had to call in my quirky general practitioner to review my results and our plan going forward. He came into the room and I detected that he was not in the best of moods as he unwrapped a throat lozenge. Probably got sick from one of his patients.

The nutritionist enthusiastically reviewed my progress with him and my doctor looked down at me and said, “Okay, let’s not blow this. It is Christmas and you need to be very careful about what you eat.” I could see the nutritionist was disappointed with his words, but also careful not to go beyond her pay grade. As he left the room, I said, “Well, there goes Debbie Downer.” I might have said it too loud as the nutritionist both laughed and ‘shushed’ me at the same time. I didn’t care, actually found it amusing. Being around so many doctors now, they no longer are looked upon as deity. No, they are just a part of my social circle.

I have come a long ways with doctors and medicine. I remember the first time I went to a doctor’s office by myself. I might have been around 11 or 12 years old. It was what then was a traditional doctor’s office, a renovated large house where the former family room was now a waiting room with about 15 chairs and a receptionist’s window, with no glass in it, about four feet above the old oakwood floor and a woman sitting on the other side, her eyes set at about the level of the window.

This particular time, my maiden solo voyage to a doctor’s office, I checked in and the woman gave me a nice glass with no lid, the size of a normal drinking glass. It looked like something I drank my chocolate milk from that morning. She pointed to a door and said to provide her with a urine sample.

Now, as you might guess, a household that believed in the healthy benefits of eating 44 peaches in a 10 hour span did not use fancy words like “urine.” We pissed and we peed and we piddled. We never urinated. As I went through the door she had directed me to, I found myself staring at a toilet and I had to make a difficult decision. It seemed like somewhere I had heard the word urinate and I was racking my brain to remember it. Did it actually mean to pee into this beautiful glass she had given me? And, what if it didn’t mean to pee, piss, or piddle? How pissed off would she be if I actually peed into her glass. I’m telling you it was one of the hardest decisions of my life. I finally decided urinate must mean pee and I started to let it flow. I don’t know if you know it but 12 year old boys can really pee and I was immediately faced with another difficult decision – how much should I pee into the lady’s nice glass. Go big or go home, I decided, and I filled it up to just beyond the rim. You know how you can put liquid into a glass where it appears to actually be over the rim but not flowing over it?

Now I thought those decisions were the hard part, but carrying that glass through the crowded waiting room, which soon had waiting patients dropping their magazines and seeking distance from me, and not spilling a drop was one of the finest athletic accomplishments of my life. All that time playing a tight rope artist with my cousins paid big dividends. It took some time to walk very slowly, carefully setting each foot down and keeping my hands steady with my eyes totally focused on the physically impossible, over-filled glass. I was surprised how warm it felt in my hand.

At the moment of truth, whether I successfully followed the receptionist’s orders or I had just peed into a family heirloom – fully, I sat the glass on the receptionist’s counter. At first, she was looking downward, but as I stayed there waiting for the verdict, her head lifted up and her eyes were now about 12 inches away from my gift as I stared at her intently to discern whether she approved or disapproved. I have never forgotten the look on her face.