I’d been dreading a doctor’s appointment for the past couple of months. Apparently my blood work from a recent physical indicated that I might be hosting a debilitating illness in my aging body, and my physician referred me to a specialist.
Of course I’m a bit of a hypochondriac, so my mind went to all the dark places: Rabies, Parvo virus, Heartworm. And then I remembered that I’m neither a dog nor a cat. But still, the mind kept straying to thoughts better left unexamined.
I also worried that the specialist would be eager to prescribe all sorts of medications that would just make me feel like an old broad. An injection here, a pill there, and soon I’d be wrestling a list of side effects longer than Kareem Abdul Jabar’s right arm. It happens.
Today I met with the specialist. He was a lovely man who visited first with me about the book I was reading before leaping into the medical stuff. The man knew how to woo me.
After a thorough exam he asked, “How old are you again?”
“Nearly 60,” I said.
“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. You’re just fine.”
“Well, I drink a lot of wine,” I said.
“Increase the dose,” he replied.
I might’ve made up that last line.
Peace, and good health people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 