As the leaves start to turn and the days grow shorter, I find myself daydreaming about the idyllic days of early summer; back when I could count on the sun to warm my quad bones late into the night; back when the rains held off long enough to allow me to explore nature in my power chair; back when I had a full stable of excellent doctors I could rely on.
That last memory may not seem like it fits, but when I look back on this summer, the series of unfortunate (and sometimes inexcusable) events that left me questioning the medical profession and struggling to find competent care providers will no doubt be near the front of my mind.
A mere three months ago I considered myself lucky when it came to doctors. I had a wonderful physiatrist, a trusted urologist I considered a friend, and a new primary care physician who seemed young and enthusiastic. Then it all fell apart.
It started with a letter. The envelope looked like the many other bills and insurance requests littered across my desk, but inside was a solitary sheet informing me my beloved urologist of 15-plus years was ending his practice in two weeks and moving away. Just like that