When I went into practice in 1989, patients used to comment about my youthful appearance. "I thought the arthritis doctor had to be old," they told me. The years rolled by, and those comments became much less frequent. Nowadays, patients are more likely to ask me if I have arthritis, rather than comment on my youthful appearance.
Sometimes patients come back to the office after a hiatus of several years and compliment me that I have not aged in the interval. One bit of blarney deserves another, so I deflect the compliment by telling them I’m well preserved, because my patients are so nice to me. One lady became sentimental and insisted that she had been seeing me for 30 years, and I had to disabuse her of this fantasy by reminding her that I have only been at my current practice for 19 years, although it feels like I’ve been here forever.
No matter how much I love my work, I have to face the fact that one day I won’t be able to inject creaky knees or mash on fibromyalgia tender points. All good things come to an end, and I’ll have to face the frightening specter of retirement. Although I feel great, my heart tells me that I am approaching old age. If I had my choice, I would tarry in middle age forever, but that isn’t one of the options on the multiple-choice test of life.
Petite reminders of my rusty vintage pop up all the time. Just the other day, a family practice resident with whom I was seeing patients, let out a small exclamation of horrified surprise when I pulled my beloved Palm Pilot out of my pocket. I use it for reminders as well as the handy epocrates program. The resident remarked, "I had one of those when I was a medical student," with the tone of voice of someone recalling some distant epoch. I’m the last holdout on the planet without a smartphone, and I could tell from his slightly shocked demeanor that I looked completely "retro" sporting a gadget more suitable for the last millennium. I might just as well have pulled a slide rule out of my pocket.
I’m aging, but I have plenty of company for the journey. One of my colleagues is a silver-haired neurologist. Anytime one of my patients has an EMG, and tells me the doctor was old, I know exactly who they mean. He’s a sharp cookie, but younger patients are suspicious that older doctors are out of touch with cutting-edge medicine. That attitude bothers me more these days, and I know it is only a matter of time before my younger patients view me with the same prejudice. Put yourself in the place of a younger patient visiting a senior doctor. You ask a question, and the doctor consults a Palm Pilot instead of an iPhone. Does that shake your level of trust in the old codger’s answer?