Mitch Albom: What Do You Do When the Doctor is No Longer In?
My doctor is retiring.
I am heartbroken.
For 30 years, he’s been the first line of defense. A strange pain here? Give him a call. A stomach issue there? Give him a call. Time for a physical? Give him a call. Need a vaccine? Give him a call.
For 30 years, whenever something ailed me, I would drive to his office, step on the scale, have my blood pressure taken, then sit in the tidy exam room until the door opened and he entered with a smile — and my file.
Over the years, I’ve watched that file thicken, from a few thin papers to the size of a toaster box. He needs two hands to carry it now. Thirty years? That file is my life. My sneezes, my wheezes. My insides and outsides.
He’s retiring.
Is that allowed?
I should explain why this so depresses me. My doctor’s name is Scott Lewis. “Dr. Lewis” for our first decade together. “Doc” for the second. “Scott” for the third.
Scott is an “internist.” In the old days, that just meant doctor. Not a surgeon. Not an impossible-to-get-into specialist. A doctor. The kind you see at the first sign of anything.
I honestly can’t remember how I started as his patient. Someone suggested him? Someone called him? Doesn’t matter. I liked him. And I trusted him. He has a relaxed manner, a compassionate way of speaking, he’s smart, he thinks things through, and he never rushes you.
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