Our health system needs first aid
The medical profession is in need of a shot.
If today Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall and had a great fall — better he should get a Band-Aid.
Need a pill or over the hill — care of you or for you is kaput. Gone. Done. Finished.
Nobody’s around to put anyone together again.
You’re not ailing, the profession is flailing.
You need a bed, a doc, a nurse, a medication — forget it. Soon Humpty Dumpty cannot be put together again.
And neither can you.
The doctors’ opinions are in
I’ve been interviewing doctors. Many with honors, plaques even. Here’s what they said:
People are terrified AI can read an X-ray as well as a radiologist.
Pathologists have begun to use machines.
Border control is freaking out farmers who can no longer pick their necessary crops.
More and more scientific tests get conducted in the field, so who pays for all that?
You get older, you need help, you get pushed back.
To gain status in lesser countries, young Indians, Chinese, Pakistanis pick careers in medicine.
Drones are killing people.
The population’s aging.
The cost of prescriptions are rising.
They step you down to see the nurse practitioner.
Visits with a real MD are hard to arrange unless some specialized procedure’s required.
Medical care will soon be rationed.
Difficult to arrange certain needed medical tests.
Resources for the aged will be limited.
Procedures become run by insurance companies.
You’ll talk to a real doctor — only by phone.
Fitting in a checkup
Should your physical problem be excess weight, forget hunting a dietitian. Or a medical specialist. Just remember the immortal words of Chubby Checker, whose insurance carrier offered him group insurance. He said: “Please, my second cousin knew how to get rid of 235 pounds of ugly fat. He divorced her.”
And then there’s the diet pill stuff. For when your bathrobe’s formfitting. For when your bra is a hammock. When Mayor Crapdammy donates your pants for the homeless. When you wear the same size dress as the Statue of Liberty, and maybe still can’t fit and she’s 2 inches taller than you — and she’s lying down.
YOU just need exercise. Like this sheik who — when in the mood — hired a track star to run for one of his wives. The sheik lived to be 97. The runner died at 64. Moral of the story? If sex doesn’t kill you, it’s the running after that does.
And not only in New York, kids, not only in New York.
