I much prefer people from some professions to be older than I am. Presidents. Ministers. Doctors.

The ones I deal with, anyway.

I have always assumed that someone is certainly going to be wiser than me if he or she is older. I don’t think that’s an unusual preference; as you get older I believe you become more aware of the Things You Don’t Know and Never Will — and you like extra years in key professions.

This is becoming increasingly difficult, of course, as I move up the actuarial table. Some large percentage of my elders are retired. The current president is the first to be younger than me, and I don’t like it. And it’s been a while now since a doctor was older than I am.

Until my recent — and wonderful — visit to one in Long Beach.

I needed a prescription renewed, and I don’t have a doctor in California. I haven’t lived there for six years, etc. So I went to the gentleman who is the doctor for some members of my family, who recommended him heartily.

How old is he? Let’s put it this way: He got his medical degree in 1957.

All I really needed was the prescription, but this dignified man of medicine  gave me the basic checkup — of the sort I have not had in decades, I realized. The profession apparently changed when I wasn’t looking, and now everyone is a specialist.

The basic checkup, a sort of touch-all-bases physical, are rarely done anymore.

If you are of a certain age, you may remember the basic check from your childhood. The fairly thorough but not long examination of just about everything. The one that involves no “procedures” or tests or blood drawn. The one from the outside of your skin, that is.

The stethoscope on the back, so he could hear the lungs. “Deep breath. Hold it. Exhale. Another deep breath …”

The stethoscope to the chest, gravely listening to the heart. “Checking the valves,” he said.

He put the stethoscope to my carotid artery. He listened with the wisdom of nearly ix decades as a doctor. He listened at other key arterial junctions. My ankles, apparently, have very good blood flow.

The arm band to check blood pressure. Pulse taken with fingers on wrist.

Lie down. The organ palpitation, just below the ribs. “Does this hurt? How about when you breathe? No? Good.”

Checks of things in your head. Room darkened, the bright light into your eyes as you look away while he quietly says, “Hmm, hmm … looks fine.” Using the same instrument to look into your ears. A prostate check. Quick but needful.

A few things for his records. A few questions. Issues with diabetes? Blood-sugar problems? Urine flow? Constipation?

The whole thing took 20 minutes. Maybe less. But when I left I was convinced that a medical man of deep experience had given me the classic tests and would have sussed out any dire situation.

It was the sort of checkup which apparently hardly happens anywhere anymore, and certainly not in Abu Dhabi, where tests are often prescribed but doctors seem loath to touch anyone.

I left convinced that this medical veteran had a good grasp of my health situation. He seemed fine with it, and if this medical veteran thought I was basically OK, so did I.

The old system had much to recommend it. Actually peering and listening. Asking questions.

It was the best checkup I have had in decades, and I told him so.

I hope he keeps working as long as he wants, and I will go back to him if I get the chance.

Many advances have been made in medicine. But some things cannot be improved, and the general checkup by a doctor with decades of experience … not sure it can be beaten.