There’s a particular kind of heartbreak no one prepares you for.

Not the dramatic kind with violins, but the quiet administrative kind when you lose a beloved doctor.

The culprit is the pathetic state of American healthcare. Physicians can make more money, deal with less paperwork and heavy patient load by starting a new chapter in private practice.

And just like that, you are back out there. Dating in search of someone who cares about your heart and well being.

We are not talking Tinder. That would be easier. This is medical dating which is somehow more intimate and less satisfying. At least on a real first date, no one asks about your family history of hypertension or mental illness before you have had a drink.

Losing a good doctor is like losing a long-term partner. The rare one who actually listened, who remembered things, who didn’t treat you like a walking liability with a co-pay.

Mine knew my history, my quirks, and, most importantly, when to ignore WebMD-induced panic. He had context, empathy, personality, which apparently, is not billable.

I found myself scrolling through provider directories the way one might scroll through a dating app except instead of curated photos and suspiciously adventurous hobbies, it is grainy headshots and clinical bios that read like they were written by a committee of constipated robots.

“Enjoys preventative care.”

“Passionate about patient outcomes.”

“Speaks English.”

It’s not inspiring confidence.

You book an appointment. There’s a small thrill, hope, even. Maybe this one will be the one.

Then comes scheduling the first visit, the medical equivalent of a first date. There is paperwork. So much paperwork. Forms that ask the same questions in slightly different fonts.

By the time you actually see the doctor, you feel like you have already overshared.

Then the conversation begins, a more intimate meet and greet.

You attempt humor. It lands somewhere between polite nod and mild concern.

Healthcare, in its current form, feels less like care and more like a series of loosely connected transactions, stitched together by passwords you can’t remember.

Finding a great general practitioner is about comfort and trust.

We look for signs. Do they listen? Do they treat you like a person rather than a problem to be routed? Do they offer cutting edge suggestions while still covering the basics?

And every now and then, you find one who does. Someone who feels less like a transaction and more like a relationship. Someone who, against all odds, manages to practice medicine in a system that often seems designed to prevent it.

Yesterday, I found my female version of The Pitt’s, Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch. The doctor cared, had already done a deep dive into my records. She was relatable, smart and compassionate, our last names curiously overlapped.

And, most importantly, my blood pressure was perfect…120/80 sidestepping my usual bout of white coat syndrome.