. . . Or any other doctor who will actually remember you without having to look for your name on your chart; sit and talk to you for more than three minutes to find out what’s really going on with you; and actually call you on the phone in a day or two to report your lab findings, tell you what (if anything) you need to do, and answer any questions you may have. Today, other than what passes for the office visit, your principal communication with your physician is through something called a “portal.”

I always thought a portal was an opening to the spirit world, but what do I know? I’m old, exhausted, and at the moment, really frustrated.

I had my regular six-month checkup last week. My PCP (principal care physician, formerly known as a GP, or general practitioner) is a young woman, very pleasant, and apparently quite knowledgeable. Her nurse (or nurse practitioner, or physician’s assistant — I have no idea which) saw me first, took my blood pressure, checked my oxygen level with that finger thingy, and asked me a few questions. She entered that data into a computer so that the doctor had it all in front of her before she made her appearance. The doc then listened to my heart and lungs, poked my abdomen, and declared me to be among the living. I already knew that, but that’s what she gets paid for.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that you don’t even have to take your clothes off for these exams anymore! Where’s the thrill, the anticipation, the embarrassment of the old days? Along with the comfort of knowing you’ve really been checked over, they’re gone. You could have a bunch of little lumps in scary places, and no one would ever know until . . . well, never mind.

I told her my one complaint recently is that I’ve been feeling really, really exhausted. No matter how much sleep I get, it’s not enough. And my body just doesn’t want to move. I reminded her that I tend to be somewhat anemic (yes, I had to remind her), so she said she’d order the appropriate blood workup and typed something into her little computer, which apparently went directly to the office phlebotomist (an expensive-sounding name for the local vampire). And that was it . . . “See you in six months, unless you have a problem, in which case you be sure to give us a call, okay?”

*. *. *

The very next day, I received an email from a place called LabCorp. These are the folks who received my lifeblood for testing. They’re really quick! So I looked up my password, logged into their . . . yup, portal . . . and began trying to decipher the dozen or so sets of initials that, I assumed, identified the specific tests: RBC, WBC, MCV, MCH, FU (no, I made that one up to see if you’re still awake), platelets, etc. Then I Googled each one to find out what they were and what they indicated. Most were normal, but some were high or low, so I had to find a reliable medical site to figure out whether I was going to die tomorrow or possibly live a while longer. And when I was done, I came to the startling conclusion that I was . . . drumroll, please . . . ANEMIC.

Yup, I had been right all along. I should have gone to med school.

Now, you need to know that I moved out of state about three years ago, so I no longer have my long-time doctors from the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Area. No, I’m in small-town Georgia now, and I’ve learned that everything is different here. Really different. So I should not have been surprised when I didn’t receive a phone call from my doctor to discuss the lab results; after four days, I received instead an email saying I had a message from her . . . in the freakin’ portal. With about as much enthusiasm as I might muster for an upcoming colonoscopy, I opened the message and found out that . . .

I’M ANEMIC!!!

And my doctor’s recommendation? I should “start an iron and vitamin D supplement daily” and “let’s see if that helps your fatigue.”

Okay, fine. But . . . well, I’ve got some questions here. Those pills come in different dosages. Which ones should I take? And how about food? Is there anything specific I should be eating? How soon would you want to run my labs again? Hello? How do I ask you all these questions?

Oh, right . . . the g**damned portal. So I type in my questions, hit “Submit,” and get a reply message thanking me and saying I should allow up to 48 hours for a response. 48 hours?!! I’m really glad we’re not dealing with congestive heart failure here. Of course, then it would be a trip to the emergency room, which is a whole other nightmare.

So while I’m waiting for my electronic response on the mother-lovin’ portal (you’ll notice that in Georgia it’s de rigueur to drop the final “g” from words ending in “ing”), I’ve drawn up my own treatment plan: lots of fatty fish and Vitamin D-enriched dairy, etc.; the prescribed supplements, when I know what kind to buy; and — since I’m pretty much housebound most of the time — one of those UV lamps that are supposed to substitute for real sunshine, like the ones they used to use for kids in the far northern Soviet Union where the winter days are so short.

And then — if the lamp doesn’t peel off my top layer of skin or kill me outright — I’ll look forward to that sudden burst of energy that comes with no longer being anemic.

Or not.

Brendochka
3/9/24