If you're an -IST, I must be old

I hate being old! Okay, maybe not being old, but I hate feeling old every time I see an '-IST.'

Today, I went to the opthamologIST and learned that I have 'vitreous separation.' When I walked away from the computer Saturday night, a small black splotch with a tail made its way into the corner of my eye, and the opthamologIST told that this is a 'floater,' a result of the vitreous separation.

The vitreous is the gel-like substance inside the eye and, 'as we get older,' it shrinks and sometimes the stringy edges cast shadows that the eye sees as 'floaters.' The doctor assured me that it's common among people 'my age' and that I'll get used to it.

When I showed up at the opthamologIST's office, I should've anticipated the 'age' tag, because his waiting room is filled with 'old people,' some even delivered by the nursing home van. Today's visit was just another calendar page in the 'if I'm seeing an -IST, I must be getting older' saga.

When I go to my urologIST once a year, as a follow-up to a bout with cancer in 2004, I sit in the waiting room with all the 'old people.' In fairness, there are some people my age . . . they're bringing their parents to see my doctor. I also have an annual visit with my neurologIST, a result of a 1999 seizure that was an indirect result of a 1974 car wreck; and he tells me how lucky that I'm only there for our yearly 'how-ya-feeling' chit-chat, because his waiting room is filled with . . . well, you know who.

A couple of years ago, my podiatrIST diagnosed me with plantar fasciitis, which he added is not unusual for active adults (thank God for that consolation) 'my age.' I also see a dermatologIST once a year, thanks to too many days enjoying the sun as a kid (okay, frying in the sun as a kid), but at least his waiting room has some not-yet-but-almost old people eager for their Botox fix.

The '-IST theory' seems to have an indirect '-CIAN' corollary, too. My wife and 19-year-old daughter #1 love our pediatrician of 17 years. Last month, my wife rushed daughter #1 to her with a neck-and-shoulder paralysis that earlier left daughter #1 incapable of getting out of bed (ironically, the same morning she was scheduled to have all four wisdom teeth removed).

Daughter #1 is no less than two feet taller than any other patient in the waiting room; but our pediatrician, who calls the evening after every visit to check on her patients, still sent her to a Cooks Children's Hospital clinic for X-rays. When 5'11" daughter #1 was finished, the technician turned to her, smiled and said, 'You're too big to come here anymore, but I'll still give you a sticker for being so good.'

So daughter #1 is old enough to see an gynecologIST (and she does) -- one -IST I'd really rather not think about -- and that's just one more step toward becoming the ultimate 'old people' . . . grandparents!

But sitting in waiting rooms with 'old people' is much better than being in the same room with my friends and family, when they gather to mark the dreaded alternative to my getting older. I'll take regular visits with any of the aforementioned -ISTs, and any of their professional associates, over that final appointment with, you guessed it, the corollary mortiCIAN.

Although it sure would be nice, if just once, one of those -ISTs would turn to me and say, 'Here's a sticker because you've been so good.'