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He's out of my life. The kindly old doctor who bound my wounds and ministered to my health for decades is not in my new network.

No more will Louise, his long-time receptionist, greet me from her desk with a "Hi, Mr. Jacks." No more will my kindly old doctor ask, "How's the wife, Bernie," as I take off my shirt in the examining room, or me answer, "She's fine, thanks, doc. Been fishing much?"

I have had to choose a new doctor. It's like being assigned a new grandfather. It took me a while to absorb the emotional impact of this change, but entering the new doctor's office the first time was the true reality shock. While there would be one or two people in kindly old doc's waiting room at any one time, there are seven doctors in this practice, most with patients waiting.

The next shock was the paperwork process that welcomes new patients. The receptionist, Ms. Brusque by her nametag, hands me a sheaf of legal-size papers. She explains that there is a personal information form, a medical history form, and a privacy form. "Please fill these out, Mr... um... Jacks, and may I copy your insurance card?"

I fumble with the papers, the clipboard, and the drug-company pen as I find a seat where nobody will be able to peek at my intimate details. I have to settle for squeezing in between an overweight lady and a teenage boy with his leg in a cast. They stare at me for a moment, then go back to watching Oprah on the silent television on the wall.

The personal history form is straightforward, though I always get a pang when asked for the name of my next of kin. I wonder if anyone actually reads these things:

Next Of Kin: (I enter my wife's name.)

Relationship: Pretty good since her yappy dog died.

The medical and health history form takes some thought. The problem is that the questions aren't specific. There is a list of 50 or so ailments requiring a check for "Yes" or "No." Should I check "Yes" to "Heartburn" for instance? When I wolf down three-quarters of an anchovy pizza, a smelting furnace fires up just below my ribcage, but does this mean I suffer from heartburn? Or does it just mean I sometimes get stupid about what I eat? ("Stupid" is not on the list of ailments.) Do I have high cholesterol? According to this year's guidelines or last year's? They keep lowering the desirable level, like a limbo bar that it gets harder and harder to squirm under. I give every ambiguous question a "Yes" just to be on the safe side.

I complete the checklist, happy that there are far more "Nos" than "Yeses." To further my investigation into whether anybody actually reads the forms, I check "Yes" to both "Prostate Enlargement" and "Irregular Periods."

Then I shuffle the papers to the Notice of Privacy Practices. This, of course, is a description of who will have access to my medical information and who won't. My kindly old doc had a form like this, too -- it became mandatory government requirement in 2003.

The form says the provider can use my Protected Health Information, or PHI as they say in the trade, for such common-sense purposes as my treatment and insurance. Fine. But then it goes on to list 20 other ways my PHI can get out into the world, from issues like a phone call to remind me of an appointment to considerations of national security. I don't think my allergies should be of concern to the Secret Service. "We have to detour around New Jersey, Mr. President; we just got word that Bernie's hives have broken out again."

Most of these uses are dictated by law, and I can opt out of some of the 20, but who has time? I like to think I have a life. Concerning that, the last item on the sheet says the doctor can release my PHI to funeral directors, medical examiners, or coroners. At that point, I won't really care.

I am eventually placed in room 8 to wait for my new doctor. After 15 minutes, she (Lee. Who knew?) comes in reading my checklist, pencil stuck in her graying hair. She gets to the bottom and asks, "You didn't think anybody was going to read this, did you?"

OK, I can work with that. I have an official new grandmother.

Bernard Jacks is a freelance humor writer who lives in Marlboro.