The algorithm will see you now
People are troublesome. And expensive. We've seen the steady exile of problematic, costly wetware, replaced with vastly more efficient — and a whole lot cheaper — computer programs. Out with telephone operators, in with phone loops. Out with cashiers, in with self-checkout kiosks.I get that. And go along, grudgingly. If I pulled into a gas station, and one way went to self-service pumps and the other to an attendant in a freshly starched uniform and peaked cap hustling out to pump the gas, wash my windows and give me a stick of Doublemint gum, I'd certainly opt for him. A few times. But if his gas cost 25 cents a gallon more, it wouldn't be long before I'd find myself guiltily edging into the self-service line, avoiding the attendant's gaze. Opinion bug Opinion How reluctant I was to use those self-checkouts, at first. As if it were stealing from the cashiers. Which of course it is. Then the grip loosens, and tradition tumbles into the abyss. Technology wins.Still, each time you encounter the shift anew, it's jarring. The past month I've been going through ... let's call it a medical crisis, for now. In September, I lost 10 pounds without trying. Then I was thirsty at night. Really thirsty. Up every hour, tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. My eyes were dry. I'd gulp a few Dixie cups of water, put in eyedrops, go back to bed.After the second night of this, my wife urged me to get a blood test. So I went to a Quest Diagnostics, the McDonald's of blood testing. I found myself in a crowded waiting room, but no attendant. People lined up in front of a computer terminal and entered their information, then sat down. This struck me as something new, the unattended waiting room — the next step with AI and Zoom medical exams. Someday you'll get your full checkup, be poked and prodded and weighed by robots, without ever seeing a living person. There was one at Quest: Every so often, a woman would open a door and bark someone's name. At least machines don't yell at you. Yet.Turns out my test wasn't in their system. My doctor's office was a few steps away — I hadn't gone there first due to an insurance conundrum impossible to express in words. So I walked over, planning to get my blood work order and return. But once in the comforting office of a doctor I've been seeing for 20 years, I decided to just get my blood drawn there.That evening I received a brisk email titled, "Test result available on Portal." Half the time I can't even log into these things but somehow managed. Checking your results can be fraught — I'm not a doctor, and interpreting raw data can be confusing and scary. I began on my "Comp Metabolic Panel" and didn't have to get far. Front and center, the first item was: "GLUCOSE 318" while the "REFERENCE RANGE" was "60 - 99 (mg/dL)."That was all too clear: My blood sugar was triple what it should be. Part of the advice Dr. Google gave was to proceed to a hospital immediately. "Do not delay."I did delay, instead going downtown to see the "Indigenous Chicago" show at the Newberry Library and meet a friend for lunch at Gibson's. On the train downtown, my doctor called — you know you're in the soup when the doctor calls you. I have diabetes, but he'll put me on Metformin and a statin, and I should be right as rain. News of the statin hurt — you can't eat grapefruit. I have a powerful lust for grapefruit and eat it three or four times a week. No more.The "diabetic" tag also stung. Really? I'm already an alcoholic. Two chronic limiting conditions? That doesn't seem fair.At Gibson's, Rick and I had our usual conversation about the woebegone newspaper industry. I didn't touch the bread. Former Cubs slugger Sammy Sosa came over to our table and said hello.Toward the end of our meal, he cast me an appraising look — I've lost weight since I've seen him. How am I doing? he asked.I wasn't quite ready to out myself. "Hi, I'm Neil, I'm a diabetic ..." It becomes so real when you say it out loud."I've been having some health problems," I hedged. "The doctor is trying to figure out out."Then Rick did something unexpected. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Didn't say a word. Just looked at me, sympathetically. I'd like to see a computer kiosk try to do that.Coming Wednesday: the "Let's not go blind, shall we?" diet.
People are troublesome. And expensive. We've seen the steady exile of problematic, costly wetware, replaced with vastly more efficient — and a whole lot cheaper — computer programs. Out with telephone operators, in with phone loops. Out with cashiers, in with self-checkout kiosks.
I get that. And go along, grudgingly. If I pulled into a gas station, and one way went to self-service pumps and the other to an attendant in a freshly starched uniform and peaked cap hustling out to pump the gas, wash my windows and give me a stick of Doublemint gum, I'd certainly opt for him. A few times. But if his gas cost 25 cents a gallon more, it wouldn't be long before I'd find myself guiltily edging into the self-service line, avoiding the attendant's gaze.
How reluctant I was to use those self-checkouts, at first. As if it were stealing from the cashiers. Which of course it is. Then the grip loosens, and tradition tumbles into the abyss. Technology wins.
Still, each time you encounter the shift anew, it's jarring. The past month I've been going through ... let's call it a medical crisis, for now. In September, I lost 10 pounds without trying. Then I was thirsty at night. Really thirsty. Up every hour, tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. My eyes were dry. I'd gulp a few Dixie cups of water, put in eyedrops, go back to bed.
After the second night of this, my wife urged me to get a blood test. So I went to a Quest Diagnostics, the McDonald's of blood testing. I found myself in a crowded waiting room, but no attendant. People lined up in front of a computer terminal and entered their information, then sat down.
This struck me as something new, the unattended waiting room — the next step with AI and Zoom medical exams. Someday you'll get your full checkup, be poked and prodded and weighed by robots, without ever seeing a living person. There was one at Quest: Every so often, a woman would open a door and bark someone's name. At least machines don't yell at you. Yet.
Turns out my test wasn't in their system. My doctor's office was a few steps away — I hadn't gone there first due to an insurance conundrum impossible to express in words. So I walked over, planning to get my blood work order and return. But once in the comforting office of a doctor I've been seeing for 20 years, I decided to just get my blood drawn there.
That evening I received a brisk email titled, "Test result available on Portal." Half the time I can't even log into these things but somehow managed. Checking your results can be fraught — I'm not a doctor, and interpreting raw data can be confusing and scary. I began on my "Comp Metabolic Panel" and didn't have to get far. Front and center, the first item was: "GLUCOSE 318" while the "REFERENCE RANGE" was "60 - 99 (mg/dL)."
That was all too clear: My blood sugar was triple what it should be. Part of the advice Dr. Google gave was to proceed to a hospital immediately. "Do not delay."
I did delay, instead going downtown to see the "Indigenous Chicago" show at the Newberry Library and meet a friend for lunch at Gibson's. On the train downtown, my doctor called — you know you're in the soup when the doctor calls you. I have diabetes, but he'll put me on Metformin and a statin, and I should be right as rain. News of the statin hurt — you can't eat grapefruit. I have a powerful lust for grapefruit and eat it three or four times a week. No more.
The "diabetic" tag also stung. Really? I'm already an alcoholic. Two chronic limiting conditions? That doesn't seem fair.
At Gibson's, Rick and I had our usual conversation about the woebegone newspaper industry. I didn't touch the bread. Former Cubs slugger Sammy Sosa came over to our table and said hello.
Toward the end of our meal, he cast me an appraising look — I've lost weight since I've seen him. How am I doing? he asked.
I wasn't quite ready to out myself. "Hi, I'm Neil, I'm a diabetic ..." It becomes so real when you say it out loud.
"I've been having some health problems," I hedged. "The doctor is trying to figure out out."
Then Rick did something unexpected. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Didn't say a word. Just looked at me, sympathetically. I'd like to see a computer kiosk try to do that.
Coming Wednesday: the "Let's not go blind, shall we?" diet.
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