I hate seeing a new doctor. The obvious reason is that one of my physical systems is experiencing a kerfuffle that requires yet another brilliant medical specialist. And another trip to Doctor City (Erie).

“Please arrive at the doctor’s office 15 minutes prior to your appointment and make sure to bring your insurance cards.” This is a recording.

Frankly, I don’t leave the house without my insurance cards. They have a permanent slot in my wallet. At my age, I could need them on the way to the hairdresser. I never risk the 70-mile drive to Doctor City without all insurances in hand.

For my first appointment with the cardiologist at St. Vincent’s, I was in good shape time-wise. I left home a little over two hours before the appointment. I’ll be early, I thought, so I packed a book.

In a cardiologist’s office, most of the reading material is educational – you know, aortas and ventricles and those other heartsy thingies. The only other available reading is geared toward the male persuasion – because everyone knows only men have heart problems. I no longer read 3-year-old issues of Field & Stream.

On my previous visit to St. Vinnie’s, I hadn’t paid much attention to the directions because I was in an ambulance. Lying on my back, with my view out the rear window in the wee hours, then being taken directly to my assigned room didn’t do much for knowing the layout.

So, when I had to drive to that first follow-up appointment, I decided to use Waze, my phone’s GPS app. I followed its every instruction thru Erie – oh I was going to be so early! The heavy rain wasn’t even slowing me down. Then Waze stated: You have arrived at your destination.

I was at the back of a building with no signage. I drove another block and turned right. That took me to the front entrance of the hospital, but my appointment was in a St. Vincent’s office building. Somewhere on those two blocks. With no obvious entry. Waze continued to bark “You have arrived at your destination”.

I won’t bore you with all the twists and turns of the next 20 minutes, including helpful people in two different parking lots. Let’s just say that I finally gave up, drove into the main entrance of the hospital, and chose valet parking to simply get rid of the car. The lady at the information desk told me how to get to the cardiologist’s but cautioned, “It’s in another building. It is attached to the hospital building, but it’s a very long walk.” Looking at my white hair, crinkles, and portable oxygen, she added, “Why don’t we order you a wheelchair?” I was about to object just as a volunteer pulled up beside me with one. I gave in. All my extra early time had vanished.

About a mile and half later, I stood up from the wheelchair, thanked the volunteer, and walked into the cardiologist’s waiting room. I approached the receptionist with insurance cards in hand and she handed me the dreaded clipboard with that ubiquitous fill-out form. A 3-pager. Although I hate those things, I was polite. I didn’t groan. But – I have CONQUERED the worst part of that agonizing exercise.

Through years of sitting in waiting rooms of orthopedists, dermatologists, gynecologists, urologists, ophthalmologists, pulmonologists, neurologists and various other “ologists,” I got sick and tired of their impossible forms. It asks for my medications list with one 3-inch blank line to fill them in. All those “ologists” have me on at least one medicine in addition to my family doc’s prescriptions. The same 3-inch line follows with “List surgeries.” Are they kidding? Have they looked at me? You don’t make it to my age with a tonsillectomy and a baby aspirin.

So, I created a master list. I update it any time my meds change. It lists AM meds, PM meds, inhalants, topicals, over-the-counter, eye applications, and injection meds. The bottom third of the page lists the surgeries. What doesn’t kill ya makes ya stronger.

The medical secretaries love the list. And I only spend five minutes with their nosy clipboard because the answer to 9/10 of their questions is “See attached.” After I fill in name, address, and my grandmother’s blood type, I whip out my pre-printed, updated med sheet, which includes contact info, date of birth, and allergy in BOLD red print. And I hand it in through the glass window with the clipboard. If it’s a doc that I will keep seeing, I bring them an updated version when anything changes.

I can now find my cardiologist’s office, even in a blizzard. When I push open the waiting room door, I say to myself: You have arrived at your destination.

I bet my next doc will be a shrink.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren.