Once upon a time, going to the doctor was almost pleasant. Your family physician had a little office with squeaky chairs, outdated magazines, and a receptionist who knew your name, your children’s names and probably your cholesterol level.

“Hi Mike! How’s the family?”

Now? Forget it.

Today, your beloved doctor has vanished into a giant medical conglomerate with a name like United Regional Advanced Healthcare Network System Group Associates LLC. The office staff has been replaced by people who appear to have been trained by the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Their entire vocabulary consists of:

“Date of birth.”

“Insurance card.”

“Copay.”

“Sit.”

You walk up to the desk smiling warmly, hoping for a human interaction. They stare at you like you are applying for parole.

And heaven help you if you forgot your insurance card. They react as though you arrived carrying hantavirus.

But the real nightmare is not the office staff. No. The true horror is… the portal.

Every practice now has a portal. 

My primary doctor has a portal. My endocrinologist has a portal. My ENT has a portal. My gastroenterologist has a portal. I think my podiatrist’s receptionist has a portal just for discussing bunions.

Each portal requires:

A username,

A password, 

A verification code,

A text message,

An email confirmation,

A blood sample

And occasionally the answer to security questions like:

“What was the name of your third-grade crossing guard?” 

The portals are supposedly wonderful because you can now see your test results immediately.

This is not comforting.

At 2 p.m. you log in and read: “Abnormal findings noted in kidney function values.”

Naturally, you assume you will be dead by Thursday.

Meanwhile, the doctor sends a message three days later: “Everything looks fine.”

Fine? I already gave away all my collectables and updated the will.

And here’s the truly insane part: none of the portals talk to each other.

If you’re traveling and suddenly end up in the emergency room at the famous Jubilation T. Cornpone Medical Center in Dogpatch, USA (remember “Li’l Abner”?), the doctors there can’t access your records. They have no idea what medications you take, what tests you had, or whether you still possess a gallbladder. 

(I don’t.)

So, they repeat every test known to modern science.

Then when you return home, your own doctors can’t access the Cornpone records either.

It’s medical madness.

At this point, the only practical solution is to carry a giant three-ring binder containing:

Medical records 

Medication lists 

X-rays 

MRI reports 

Insurance cards 

Living wills 

And a complete list of portal passwords 

Of course, by the time you find the right password, your appointment is over.

Michael Kossove is professor emeritus and an adjunct professor of microbiology at Touro University’s School of Health Sciences. He is a polio researcher, international polio lecturer and polio survivor, and writes opinion columns for the River Reporter. He can be reached at Professormike2@aol.com.