I grew up in a house that had only one bathroom. It had a tub, but no shower. I’m sure some readers have the same memory. And our telephone was a party line; we had to take turns talking with the people we shared it with. Our number was 917-W theirs was 917-J. 

It’s amusing to reflect back on some of the ways we used to live, boggling the minds of our grandchildren who can’t quite believe it. One of the things I find especially hard to comprehend now is that we had a family doctor. Just one doctor. We turned to him when we felt sick or we were injured. He was in charge of all aspects of our health. He made house calls!

Admittedly, I am a senior. That’s why I write for Senior Spectrum, you are my people. As a senior, I’m qualified to have multiple body part issues, and I do, but it seems I have a different doctor for every one of those parts. I used to be able to put doctor’s appointment on the calendar, preceded or followed by either my name or my husband’s. I can’t do that anymore, I need more information. It has to be the specific name of the doctor and specific reason for the visit. Between the two of us, we’ve amassed such an assortment of medical providers it’s hard to remember who is who or which is which. 

I was thinking about this the other day while waiting in yet another waiting room; how different medical care is from what it used to be. Even when we first moved here 35 years ago, I had a couple (not multiple) different doctors who took care of me. They also had conversations with me that lasted longer than five minutes and were not always necessarily confined to the current complaint. Now, on several occasions when I mentioned to the doctor of the moment that I might be concerned about something else, I’m told that I have to go see the doctor who specializes in that “something else”. 

Here Is a particularly ludicrous example and undoubtedly

 unique, almost funny. I have a long-standing, long treated issue with one of my hips, disintegrating disc disease. Not long ago, I fell, resulting in pain in the opposite hip. I ended up in the care of two different specialists with two different approaches, so I have yet another name to add to my list of contacts. Maybe I should add their photos? I guess you can’t fight City Hall.

I made a major change months ago when I morphed from a life-long dog lover into a deranged cat person. I wrote about it here. Not just once, but twice. Now I’m writing about Molly for the third and presumably final time. Expected reaction from the dog lovers will probably be “oh good grief, again?” followed by “is this finally the end of the story?” From the cat lovers, I hope for both outrage and sympathy.

I am astonished at how quickly Miss Molly captured our hearts. We got her as a rescue cat from the SPCA and when we first bought her home, she was so timid and fearful she spent the first five days hiding under a chair before venturing out to explore the room. Her food/water/litter box were there, and so were we, much of the time, something she

 learned to like to the point that she would only eat when we were there. Eventually, of course, she was queen of the house, exploring every corner and establishing her favorite places. One of those places was on my chest as she put a paw on either side of my neck, nuzzling and purring. 

Then one evening when the garage door was left open, she ran outside, perhaps to explore this unknown territory and we haven’t seen her since. At first, I was both alarmed and annoyed; what if she ended up being dinner for a predator? And how could she possibly want to leave us? Since she had never been out before, I am still haunted by the thought that she might really be lost and not know how to get back home. 

I spent that first night on the couch downstairs, hoping she would appear. I communicated with anyone and everyone I could think of, made flyer’s with her photo for every mailbox in the neighborhood, contacted all the animal shelters. She is chipped so if anyone turned her in, we would be notified. But she’s also beautiful; perhaps someone simply decided they had a new pet. 

When she had been gone nearly a week, I got a text from someone claiming she knew where Molly was, but she wouldn’t tell me how to find her. I was so happy and relieved and emotionally involved that any of vestige 

 of common sense vanished from my head. I ignored all the red flags during our back-and-forth messaging. It’s a long story, it was very painful, obviously some sort of scam, but it wasn’t successful because she ended up without money and I ended up without Molly. 

It’s hard to understand how anyone could be that cruel but not everyone is. When I posted the experience (a very brief version) on Next-door, I was very touched by the number of wonderful responses I got from people offering words of outrage and sympathy, along with more suggestions. Everyone has a story of a cat that disappeared and then miraculously reappeared. Of course, I hope that will happen, but I think she is gone so once again…