This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

When this newspaper was purchased by Paul Huntsman, a vast sense of relief settled over the newsroom. No longer was our survival in doubt. Hope blossomed.

We were previously owned by a New York hedge fund that [Editor's note: While we allow Robert a great deal of latitude in his column, we will not print these words] and therefore should all suffer [or these] agonizing deaths.

As hopeful as we are at The Tribune today, a small disappointment came as a result of the Huntsman purchase. It involves health insurance.

Oh, we still have insurance. It's different insurance. Different enough that none of the doctors I've had for the past 13 years, including a voodoo practitioner named Dog Tooth Mumdoo in Magna, accept our plan.

This means I must — and I'm trying hard not to scream here — find all new doctors, including family care, orthopedic surgeon, optometrist, podiatrist, dentist, etc.

For the average person, this might not be a big deal. For me, it's huge. I have a strong aversion to strangers rummaging about in my personal parts, and this includes while I'm heavily sedated or even unconscious.

No offense, but I don't care about your credentials, experience, confidence or bedside manner. It takes time and trust before I'll let you just crawl under my hood.

A good example of this is my former dentist, Dr. Rodney Thornell in Herriman. He's as nice of a person as someone like me could possibly hope to know. Today, I wouldn't even think twice about giving him the PIN number for my debit card or the keys to my house.

But I hate dentists, even though I need them. Pain I can handle. It's the overly close proximity of people I don't know that winds me up.

So the first time I was seen by Rodney, it took two entire tanks of nitrous and half a bottle of tequila before he could get me to open my mouth. But he is nothing if not professional. He also used a spare tire as a bite block, and had two of his staff sit on me.

Ten years later, going to the dentist consisted of a Xanax, taping my eyes shut and listening to Stevie Ray Vaughan while he worked. As long as I wasn't in the chair, Rodney and I were good friends.

It was the same with my primary care physician, Dr. Gregory Daynes. I don't recall exactly what happened on my first visit other than he asked for an up-close-and-personal look at my shoulder. I was instantly suspicious.

Me: "Why?"

Him: "Well, because there's an arrow sticking out of it."

Anyway, it was something like that. Over the years, Greg got to know me really well. He helped me through a lot of stupid things I did to myself, most noticeably a drug addiction following a couple of major surgeries. I'm going to miss him despite the occasional prostate exam.

Finding new doctors who meet specific criteria has been tough. First, they need to accept my insurance coverage. Second, they have to look like they can handle being threatened without taking it personally.

Third, and most important, they have to be willing to show up in the newspaper from time to time.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.