Last week I learned from my cardiologist that there are two ways elevated cholesterol levels can kill me. The first is by increasing the likelihood of a heart attack. The second is at the hands of my doctor, should I continue to refuse to follow his advice. In his two-year battle to put me on a statin drug, the heart attack argument never worked, but his demonstrated aggravation in our Wednesday morning appointment went the distance toward securing his victory. As I walked to the pharmacy to drop off my prescription, I asked myself why this doctor is so doggedly committed to ensuring my good health—especially given my resistance to following his advice—and pondered over whether we as patients can actually affect the quality of care we receive. After cogitating on this over the weekend, I came to a conclusion—an emphatic yes—and identified things we can do to ensure first-class treatment.

I woke up at seven this morning and had a small breakfast of cottage cheese and marmalade, accompanied by two strong shots of espresso courtesy of my parents’ formidable coffee machine. I slathered sunscreen over my face and neck, donned a baseball cap and sunglasses, and walked out to the kayak that I’d laid out on the lawn the night before.