As a senior citizen, I have begun to suspect that the entire medical profession has misplaced its instruction manual. I go to the doctor with a list of complaints that would frighten a used-car salesman, and all I get is a recommendation for another vaccine.

My knees sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies, my back has developed its own weather system, and I occasionally forget why I walked into a room. I explain these things to the doctor, who listens with the grave expression of a man preparing to deliver bad news.

Then he says, “Have you considered getting your shingles vaccine?”

Shingles? Doctor, I’m trying to keep the shingles on the roof. The rest of me is falling apart.

I ask about my hearing, and he recommends a vaccine. I mention that my eyesight is deteriorating, and he recommends a different vaccine.

I tell him my shoulder hurts, and he starts discussing pneumonia. At this rate, if I complain about my marriage, he’ll probably suggest a booster for my wife.

I remember when going to the doctor meant somebody might actually try to fix something. Now it seems the medical profession has become a vaccine distribution center with a waiting room. You can barely get your blood pressure checked without somebody offering to inoculate you against a disease you haven’t heard of since the Nixon administration.

I’m not opposed to vaccines. I wish somebody would invent one for old age. I’d gladly take two doses, a booster, and whatever comes in the little orange bottle, but, knowing my luck, the doctor would tell me it’s not covered by Medicare.