Pick-A-Physician Game

Since I’m now in a new city, I have to pick a new doctor. Picking a doctor to be your "primary care physician" when you have no clue who the heck he is (either personally or professionally) can be a very frightening thing. I tend to be more cavalier about picking a doctor than Kevin. When we lived in Virginia, Kevin had a certain condition, which shall remain nameless, and I told him he should probably have it checked out by a doctor - to play it safe. He said he didn’t have a doctor. "Oh, that’s simple," I said. "Just pick one." I didn’t see any problem with just closing your eyes, opening the book to a random page, placing your finger on the page, and picking that lucky doctor to be your own. And, if you really didn’t like him on your first visit, you could just try another one next time!

Sometimes, however, when I go to pick a doctor I don’t treat the task quite so haphazardly. (e.g., closing my eyes and placing my finger on page 44.) Rather, I scan the list to see who has the coolest sounding name. Or, better yet, I start at the top of the list, read the basic stats, form my own judgments based on the stats, and THEN pick a doctor. In Virginia, my doctor’s name was "Anne Brown." I wanted a female doctor and she was the first female name listed, alphabetically, within 15 miles of where I lived. See how simple that is? Of course, it’s a good thing that not all people are as illogical as I am when they go to pick a doctor. Otherwise, Dr. Varughese and Dr. Zarrabi would never get any patients. Duh!

One of the "stats" I take into consideration when picking a doctor is how long they’ve been practicing. For instance, Dr. Hibbard’s stats reveal that he’s been in practice for 45 years! Some people might be attracted to this fact because, probably, he is a very experienced grandfatherly-type doctor. This is all well and fine. But, to me, it means that he’s probably like my dear, elderly childhood doctor . . . Dr. Schneider. Dr. S. was so old that he couldn’t see very well. His glasses were about six inches thick. (Seriously!) I was present in the room when he went to remove a wart off my sister’s hand. By mistake, he removed a freckle next to the wart instead. I still don’t think she’s forgiven him for that unfortunate incident.

So, anyway, the moral of the story is . . . well, I’m not quite sure what it is.