COVID, Doctors,

and Atul Gawande

COVID, Doctors, Atul Gawande

We’ve avoided COVID for four years now, not by Good Behavior, not by Doing

Something Other People Don’t.  Just plain luck.  We got shots, true, but we live in

New York City, where isolating is more or less impossible.

In the beginning, we had friends who didn’t go out – who exercised serious caution –

who read up on COVID, and who washed every single thing that came into their

apartment, as well as doorknobs, packages, pieces of fruit.  We did none of that.

We continued our lives – went on subways, took the bus, ate in the little sheds that l

looked like succoth on our streets.  All that seems so long ago.  Another lifetime.

We were surprised, this week, to realize we both have COVID for the first time now.

Where and how we got it is not entirely clear.  We were out every night last week-

theater, friends, et al.

COVID is with us all.  Just part of the life we now live.  Like I Phones and laptops and

so much that is modern life.  So much that is not so easy to get used to.

Like doctors and aging.

When we were all young, when nothing much was wrong – measles, mumps, chicken ‘

pox – we had one doctor – sometimes a family friend – who would prescribe

something simple. 

Robitussen, for instance.  Our doctor was Uncle Jack.  I’d ask him a question, and he

would respond without sending me down a rabbit hole:  You’re fine.

There was no google then, and we didn’t question medical advice.  And the stakes

weren’t high. And neither was our information about the medical system.

We did what the doctor said, and when we were young, they didn’t say much.

Now it’s a different story.  We have doctors for every body part.  They often

disagree.  Diagnosis and treatment (we all have Something now) is hard to figure

out.  We compare doctor notes.  I keep a notebook with recommended specialists,

just in case.  When friends recommend a specialist, I write their name in a big black

book. Now I have a gastroenterologist, Marty (my diagnosis:  Ashkenazic Jew). He

is young and funny and intelligent.  When I asked why he became a gastro, he said

that he has Celiac, and his parents, both psychiatrists, took him to many shrinks

and many gastros and he decided he was going to do it right.  (My diagnosis: 

Ashkenazic Jew.)

Last year, I needed a new GP.  I wrote a poem on my daily poetry site about looking

for a doctor.  Six of my New York readers responded with names.  I visited them all (!!!)

even though I don’t like going to the doctor. But I am curious about why people do

their jobs. My criteria for choosing a doctor: they had to have read Atul Gawande’s On

Being Mortal. I love the book, and what it says about aging.

One of the doctors, unusual Indian man (he read Atul Gawande) told me what led to

his going to medical school.  “My parents and brothers are all doctors,” he said.  I had

to do something else so I went to MIT and got a PhD in mathematics.  My MIT exit

interview was with someone who asked me what’s next.  And even though I don’t

entirely believe in the unconscious I suddenly said I want to be a doctor.  So I went to

medical school.”

The last woman I visited, recommended by Mindy, a wonderful

poet and dancer was the kind of practitioner I’m always looking for. Marilyn Jackson.

Small funky office with just an assistant.  She, gave me a one hour physical

using her hands, did not stare blankly at her computer looking for information.  When

I was about to leave she asked Do You Stay in the City All Summer?

No I replied.  I’m lucky enough to be in upstate New York.  Do you know upstate New

York? Only one town and one road, she said.  It happened to be mine.

PS: Larry and Zev are reading at Citylore Thursday night.

Call the Doctor by JJ Kale.