Everything we love, and hate, about medical portals | Ervolino

Today I would like to address two things. One is something I love: my cellphone. The other is something I despise: paperwork.

For years, I did my best to keep them separated.

My cellphone is always close by: in my hand, in my pocket and inches away from my dinner plate, as I slice my meatloaf or shake salt onto my salmon.

After all, what if someone tried to reach me while I was having dinner? What if I desperately needed to know the time, the date, or next Thursday’s weather?

What if my meatloaf (or salmon) looked so gorgeous that I needed to take a picture of it? And what if I wanted to immediately post that picture on my social media pages? And what if I wanted, ASAP, to like the people who liked the photo of my meatloaf?

Or salmon?

You can’t do any of this if you are downstairs and your phone is upstairs. Or you’re in the house and your phone is in the car. Or…

Well, you get the idea.

As for paperwork: All that junk is immediately brought into the dining room as soon as it enters the house. This includes bank statements, pizza coupons, ransom notes and assorted bills in assorted square (or rectangular) envelopes.

There’s the electric bill, the water bill, the telephone bill, and on into infinity.

There are even a bunch of square (or rectangular) envelopes that look like bills, but insist, right out front, “This is not a bill.”

The dining room is where I keep all these bills and non-bills, because it is the one room in the house that I hardly ever use.

How could I have people over for cocktail parties, dinner parties and/or smart Sunday afternoon brunches when I have so many bills?

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Last week, I bought a bottle of olive oil for $24.95. And it wasn’t even a big bottle!

Do you think I can afford to invite people over, make them salad and splash $24.95 olive oil all over it?

Not bloody likely.

Should you care, I also used to get little reminders in the mail about upcoming appointments with my primary doctor, my respiratory doctor, my back doctor, my front doctor and the various other doctors I keep on the side.

But then, one day, they began texting me about my appointments.

Text reminders! What a clever idea!

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Like so many clever ideas, however, this one took a sharp turn. And I was suddenly beset by portals.

When I was a handsome young Adonis, about three years ago, a “portal” was defined as “a doorway, gate or other entrance.”

Look up the word today and you will also find: “a health care webpage providing access or links to test results and other patient information.”

And where do these links manifest themselves?

On your phone, of course, because it’s right next to you, while you’re going to sleep, waking up, eating, jogging, opening your Christmas presents or going through a messy divorce.

So one minute you’re chewing your cauliflower and the next minute you’re reading about why you need to be lobotomized.

Is this how we want to get test results? My friend Cathy thinks not: “I found out I had cancer by looking at my portal, rather than from the doctor. I now refuse to use it.”

Janet had a similar experience, finding out, after her husband’s CT scan, that he had cancer. “It was devastating,” she said. “Results like that should never be released until discussed with a physician.”

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When I posted my thoughts about this on my social media page, respondents complained that some portals were difficult to navigate or required yet another password that they had to remember. And more than one said they were reluctant to have their personal information on a website that could, potentially, be hacked.

Not everyone had a negative impression, though. Those who appreciate the portal insist it saves them time, prepares them for their next in-person visit and is preferable to calling a doctor’s office, which, nowadays, can be a complicated affair.

As Michele noted, “I don't want to fight through three or four layers of a phone menu, then have to exchange pleasantries with some stranger just to make an appointment or ask them to call in a refill. Just point me to a website and I can get everything done in two minutes.”

Barry noted, “I think [portals] are a reflection of the inappropriate complete reliance on technology. I don’t understand why I can’t call a doctor and actually speak to a doctor.”

Julie agreed: “Why can't the doctor’s office just pick up the phone?”

Karen called the lack of human interaction “maddening.”

My friend Niki was even angrier: “Forget about it! No one picks up the phone anymore!”

I called her, hoping she would elaborate. But she didn’t pick up the phone.

This article originally appeared on NorthJersey.com: Medical portals can be maddening, but not for everyone