I continue to use that system for all my healthcare needs, and it serves me well. But as I said, the service isn’t as good as the service my car gets from the dealership. Let me cite a few examples. They may sound familiar.
It’s time for my car’s regular service. The service department has told me to drop it off at 9 a.m. I do that and guess what? By 9:10 three things have happened: A technician has taken my car into the service area. A clerk has completed the paperwork for the visit. And I’m in a dealer-provided loaner car on my way to my office. (I still spend weekday mornings in my old law office.)
Now compare: It’s time for my annual check-up with my primary care physician. My appointment is at 2. I arrive early, but do I expect to see him by 2? Of course not! That’s why I’ve brought a book. I know from long experience that doctors don’t see their patients on time. Maybe seeing patients on time is an admission of an unsuccessful practice.
What about the end of these sessions? Let’s take the car first. If the dealer said I could pick up my car at 4:30, that’s when I arrive, without a book or even a newspaper. And guess what? My car is ready, and so is the bill. The bill is probably higher than I hoped or even expected, but it’s ready, and it’s detailed down to the last sparkplug and penny.
Parts and labor are itemized. If something unexpected came up, the shop has called me for my okay. My car is repaired, tuned up, washed, and ready for my drive home. Barring unforeseen problems, I won’t see the dealership again until my next regular service interval.
Compare that to the end of my primary care physician visit. That’s when I’m reminded that the visit was merely the first of many, many steps in a months-long medical journey. As best I can remember the end of my last visit, my primary care physician informed me that I needed to schedule an X-ray and an ultrasound, visit a cardiologist, gastrointestinal specialist, and nephrologist (for which I must visit the lab to have my blood tested beforehand); schedule my annual ophthalmology visit; be sure to get COVID-19 and flu vaccinations; and pick up the medications he (my primary care physician) has prescribed. It goes without saying (literally) that I’ll accumulate more prescriptions from the specialists I’ll be seeing.
It also goes without saying that it’s up to me to make appointments with the specialists—appointments that may be months in the future—and show up (always book in hand) for each of them, just as it’s up to me to pick up the medications that will be prescribed along the way. Fortunately for me, all the specialists I eventually schedule are in the same metropolitan area I live in—three different cities but one metropolitan area.
The experience is a little depressing (which I don’t tell my doctor for fear he’ll refer me to a psychologist). But I cheer myself up by recalling how much it makes me appreciate my trip to the auto dealership. After all, the dealer didn’t make me visit a different specialist for every component and system of my car. He didn’t hand me a list of parts I needed and wished me luck in finding them. And he didn’t give me prescriptions for oil, grease, freon, and brake fluid that my car needed.
Those two visits, one to my doctor, one to my auto dealership—occurred when I was in town, visiting my regular physician or my local car dealer. What if I’m out of town?
For a car breakdown, I know the answer from experience. About ten years ago, my car (brand new at the time) broke down when I was in a rural area, over 300 miles from home. After I regained my composure, I called the 800 number on the little decal in the corner of my windshield and explained my plight. Within 30 minutes, a flatbed truck was speeding my wife, car, and me to the local dealer of my car’s make. (By the way, that was covered by the warranty.)
When we arrived, a technician inserted my key fob into a computer and was instantly granted access to my car’s profile, entire history, and—believe it or not—a diagnosis and cure for the cause of the breakdown. (The computer reported that my car’s symptoms indicated a problem occurring in a number of cars of the new model year, for which there was an easy fix.) Armed with that information, a technician applied the fix, and my wife and I were on our way within an hour after arrival. And remember, this was ten years ago! (Warranty, again.)
Now, let’s assume that I broke down 300 miles from home. You know the answer. If I had a truly serious injury or illness, I would go to a local hospital emergency room and hope for the best. Ironically, if the injury or illness was not serious, my only realistic option would be to return home in order to be taken care of by my regular providers.
But let’s say I went to an out-of-town ER. My guess is that the only information the ER personnel would have about me, beyond their examination results, would be what I could tell them. I hate to admit it, but I probably wouldn’t even be able to tell them the names and dosages of the several medications I’m on. It’s too bad I don’t have a personal key fob that works like my car’s key fob did ten years ago.
Sure, I could give them the phone numbers and email addresses of my primary care physician and cardiologist (I’d probably have to look them up), but that information would be useful, if at all, only during office hours.
In short, I consider myself lucky when it comes to my healthcare. I have easy access to my state’s largest and best healthcare system, where they treat me unusually well because I used to work there. But I can’t help noticing, whenever I use the healthcare system or take my car in for maintenance or repairs, that the car gets better care than I do.
I admit it: I’m jealous of my car.