I've reached the age where it feels like every time I turn around, I hear about someone else diagnosed with cancer. With all of the information at my fingertips, I am always quick to volunteer my resources.

I changed doctors this summer, aggravated to the breaking point not due to poor care, but by frustrations with how the office was managed. The last straw: It took me at least four phone calls that I initiated (not counting callbacks) to get my doctor to authorize a standard blood test before my appointment. You see, I have low thyroid and my thyroid hormone levels must be checked every six months. Our pattern until this summer was that I'd go in to see him, tell him that I feel fine, and then he'd tell me to have my blood test and he'd call me with the results. That didn't seem to be an effective use of anyone's time, so this time I wanted to have my blood results first, and actually have something to talk about at my appointment. Despite my very clear messages and conversations with every nurse who called me back, my efforts were fruitless. Twice, I showed up at the blood-draw station for my test, and twice was turned away because the prescription was never sent.

A friend's mother ("Gertie") recently went in for some tricky but noninvasive colon surgery. The surgeon, at one of the top hospitals in the country, was tremendously thorough in explaining the procedure and the possibility of invasive surgery if the noninvasive approach was not possible once she was on the table. And he, of course, explained the risk of short-term fecal incontinence afterwards given the area of the body where he would be working.