We should be allowed to expect certain standards of behavior from the professionals we depend on. Our accountants should not declare bankruptcy. Our lawyers should not end up in jail. Our mechanics should not get stranded and have to call AAA. Our therapists should not be caught naked in the middle of Main Street babbling about the Martian invasion.
Our physicians should not die.
Mine has -- Dr. Daniel Tritch, of a heart attack at 63. It happened a week ago Sunday, but I was out of the office and not looking at obits last week; I just learned about it when I got home yesterday and found a letter from his medical practice. To say it was a shock is putting it mildly. For one thing, he's the only primary-care physician I've had since I moved back to Fort Wayne more than 20 years ago. For another, he was a good guy.
Among his many other fine attributes, Dr. Tritch had the decency to be older than me. When you start noticing that certain people are routinely younger than you -- doctors, police officers, teachers -- it upsets your notion of how you fit into the delicate balance of life. Dr. Tritch's practice sent me photos and short bios of three doctors who are accepting patients, and naturally they are all noticeably younger than me. The one I eliminated right away from consideration was the one whose photo looked like it belonged in a high school yearbook. Call me an age chauvinist, but I imagined myself being examined by him and wondering if he was rushing me through it so he could go home and get ready for the junior prom. One down, two to go.
I don't have a therapist, by the way, though this could well drive me to it. Assuming, of course, it is possible to find one who takes the Martian threat seriously.
