I’m Fine…So Far

There comes a point in life when “nothing is wrong” requires an astonishing number of appointments to confirm.

I appear to have reached that point.

This year, after months of digestive issues, I decided it was time for the full-body inspection. Head to toe, like taking an aging car in for its 100,000-mile check, except the car doesn’t have to get naked nearly as often.

I started making appointments. That alone took half a day.

First, the mammogram.

There’s nothing quite like standing half naked while a stranger positions you in a machine designed by someone who clearly never had breasts. Then you wait for the results. Good news.

Next came gastroenterology. We all know what appointment comes next, so we’ll leave it there. There are some things even I don’t need to share.

I had my eyes checked. There’s a floater in my right eye, and I needed a new prescription. Nothing serious.

Then I had my hearing checked. I was right. My hearing has changed significantly. Not profoundly deaf. Just deaf enough to require hearing aids while remaining convinced everyone around me has developed a mumbling problem.

Next came the gynecologist.

I arrived prepared for the indignities women have endured since adolescence, only to be told they weren’t going to do a Pap smear.

Then why am I here?

I’ve reached an age where I no longer need one unless there’s a particular reason. This would have been useful information before I got undressed.

They did, however, schedule a bone density test. There’s something vaguely insulting about arriving to have your lady parts examined and leaving with an appointment to see whether your skeleton is deteriorating.

Then there’s the dermatologist.

Four appointments. An excision, stitches out, another excision, stitches out again, and my six-month check. My skin has its own social calendar.

I still have the podiatrist. I need my heart checked. My lungs checked. My mental health medications updated. Wouldn’t want to get any crazier than I already am.

And because I’ve decided every part of me needs professional supervision, I went back to the gym with Jeremy and scheduled a physical therapy series.

As I’ve mentioned before, the dentist bill keeps adding up. I was eating an orange slice, the candy, not the fruit, and another crown came out. My dental bill is currently sitting at more than $3,000.

Within ten minutes, I dropped a camera lens.

I stood there thinking about the crown (I refused to go on a search) and the lens. I realized I had possibly just experienced the most expensive ten minutes of my life. No doctor was even involved.

After all of this, apparently, I’m fine.

Not the fine I remember from younger years, when fine meant absolutely nothing was wrong with you. At this age, fine has been redefined.

Fine doesn’t necessarily mean nothing is wrong anymore. It means they’ve found a few things, ordered a few more tests, replaced a part or two, and nobody seems particularly alarmed.

That’s fine.

And I’m beginning to understand why older people talk about their health so much. It’s not necessarily because we’re obsessed with it. It’s because maintaining the equipment takes up so much of our time.

You take the car in at 100,000 miles, and they check the belts, fluids, brakes, and tires. I’m doing the same thing.

A few warning lights are on, but nothing is smoking.

And for all my complaining, I know being able to get all these things checked is a privilege. Not everyone gets that chance. So, I’ll keep going.

Eyes, ears, teeth, bones, skin, heart, lungs, feet, and whatever else decides it needs attention. Good heavens, the list is endless.

Next year? I’m starting in July.