Medicine commercials give me a headache. Unfortunately, I have to pay attention to them because their products can either: (a) relieve my headache or (b) kill me.

So I strike a compromise: Whenever one of these pitches comes on the TV screen, which happens approximately once a minute, I turn down the sound.

I can’t bear to listen as the announcer announces that the side effects for the prescription medication in question can include gastric distress, swelling of the earlobes, neck pain, body odor, dandruff or bad breath.

After that, I am warned not to operate heavy machinery, which puts the kibosh on my plans to buy a steamroller.

And that’s all before I lapse into a coma.

Then the announcer says, “Ask your doctor.”

So I did.

“Do patients ask you about the medications in those TV commercials?” I asked Dr. Sanjay Sangwan, my primary care physician.

“Yes,” he answered. “With 90% of them, there’s a mutual understanding about what’s right for them. But 10% tell me what they want.”

“What do you tell them if the medicine they want isn’t right for them?” I wondered.

“Find another doctor,” said Dr. Sangwan.

“You have me on baby aspirin because I’m a big baby, right?” I said.

“You said it, not me,” the doctor said.

“And I’m on blood pressure medication and a statin, but they won’t give me hives or ingrown toenails, will they?” I inquired.

“No,” Dr. Sangwan assured me.

“But I still shouldn’t operate heavy machinery, correct?” I said.

“You can operate it,” Dr. Sangwan said. “But don’t try to lift it.”

He added that what’s really confusing about the medications in TV commercials are their names.

“I don’t know where the drug companies come up with them,” Dr. Sangwan said.

“They have a lot of Q’s, X’s and Z’s, but not many vowels,” I noted, suggesting that a couple of them could be named after me: Jerryflu (“It’s something to sneeze at”) and Zezempic (“For people with fat heads”).

The medications I take helped me achieve perfect scores for blood pressure, blood oxygen, heart rate and temperature.

“I have vital vitals,” I pointed out.

“That’s vital,” Dr. Sangwan agreed.

“How come I don’t have to take my clothes off?” I asked. “I used to strip down to my skivvies during a physical.”

“Who wants to see your flowered underwear?” Dr. Sangwan said. “Maybe your wife does.”

“Not really,” I said. “She has to wash them.”

“You don’t have to undress anymore because bloodwork can give a lot of information,” explained Dr. Sangwan, who asked me to lift my shirt so he could listen to my heart and lungs with a stethoscope. He also looked in my mouth and asked me to say, “Ah!”

“There’s one word I’m glad I no longer have to hear,” I said.

“What’s that?” the doctor asked.

“Cough,” I replied.

“You’re in excellent shape, especially for a guy who’s 72,” said Dr. Sangwan, who not only is excellent himself but, at 54, is the first doctor I have ever had who’s younger than I am.

I told him about my mother, who’s 101 and still going strong.

“Most old people are women,” he said. “I had a female patient who was 99. I said, ‘I hope to see you next year.’ She said, ‘You look pretty healthy. I bet you’ll make it.’ I hope she’s right. Men don’t live that long.”

When we talked about my job as a newspaper columnist, Dr. Sangwan said, “You’re a dying breed.”

“Dying?” I spluttered.

“Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “You’re doing very well.”

“So I don’t have to take any of those medications that can kill me?” I asked.

“No,” Dr. Sangwan said with a smile. “Keep your sense of humor. And remember that laughter is the best medicine.”

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