My earliest recollection of doctor’s offices were happy ones. My mom would drive me to Dr. Stagg’s. While she talked to the nurse – an older woman in a white uniform with white shoes and a funny white hat that looked a little like the front part of a sailor’s cap – I would sit myself at the child’s table and play with the puzzles or draw with crayons. I remember this quite clearly.

Later, I began to get regular shots. No stacks of worn picture books or stacks of Highlights magazines could distract me from feeling a sense of impending dread. The smell of rubbing alcohol – so prevalent – reminded me of that awful place of healing.

And that went on for decades. I suppose I took after my father in that respect. If you don’t see a doctor, he can’t tell you you’re sick or give you a shot. Thankfully I was blessed with fairly good health so avoiding an annual checkup had no lasting impact on my life. I even convinced myself I was saving money.

At some point, I mastered my fear of injections. Are you a man or a child? Just do it. And I do. As I get older, I don’t look at things and hope they go away anymore. I schedule the appointments. I get the recommended blood work, the procedures, the IVs. The alcohol smell still makes my stomach quiver … because there are some things in life you just never get over.

My GP feels like an old friend I catch up with once in a great while. I’ve been his patient since I lived in Roslindale. He has warned me about stress and my blood pressure, which has been creeping up for almost ten years now.

After every exam he asks me if there is something specific I’d like his opinion on. What’s this thing on my hand? I extend my right hand and he leans over to gaze at this lump I’ve been scratching. “Not quite sure.”

A local dermatologist says he’s not sure either – possibly a wart. He freezes it. The bandaged lump swells into a black blister … and then returns a few months later. I schedule another appointment. The same treatment; the same results.

Time for a second opinion. The new doctor is younger and friendlier.

“What would you like me to do?” Sincerely.

I’m tired of half measures. He uses a blade shaped like a loop. It’s exquisitely sharp. Problem solved. He sends it to the lab for a biopsy. Weeks later, a letter arrives confirming its not cancer. I do have a nasty scar though. Still, that lump is gone. Gone for good.

Except, another appears. I return. OK, seriously what’s going on with my skin? He asks me if I’m experiencing stress or depression. Interesting question from a dermatologist.

Maybe I should watch less TV and start meditating more.