I’m happy with my doctor. Ten years or so ago I left the last one after he was about to prescribe a medication I’d had a reaction to, and appeared to have forgotten I’d had a major body part chopped off. Read the darn chart, fella!
My Dr. V is great. He’s in that sweet spot of age for a doctor, low 50s, old enough to know his stuff and young enough to stick around for a while. Plus, he’s there. Too many of my friends are fruitlessly searching the medical wilderness for a Primary Care doc after their guy quit the practice/retired/left the area.
And Dr.V. is less than 15 minutes away in an area populated with Portuguese, giving your visit a sort of old-world flair. When you call the office, part of the recorded message instructs you to dial número um for a non-English version.
When I arrived there yesterday, it felt a bit like stepping back in time to the bad old deep-Covid days, although do I want to frequent a practice that plays fast and loose with Omicron swirling around?
All’s well - my usual boring BP of 140 over 70 - and this was the short exam of a quick listen to the heart, lungs, and a write-up for bloodwork next door. I’ll see him again in December for the works. This exam was briefer by far than the 25 minutes I waited in the examining room to see him. (He did apologize for running late.) That’s fine. Our goal should be to see as little as possible of our doctor, after all.