What with one thing and another, particularly the flood at work (it was in a neighbouring suite so we were spared the worst of the problems, but we’re still coping with secondary effects, like several tons of soggy medical files blocking most of our hallway), I forgot to mention the fact that I got the first full-on physical of my adult life a couple of weeks ago.
No, it wasn’t a “turn your head and cough” situation — apparently they don’t actually do that anymore — but it did involve another round of fasting blood work, all manner of palpitations, and what I can only describe as an intense interview pertaining to my personal weight, eating and drinking habits.
Fortunately, I’m doing well. I was actually rather amused, I must admit, when we walked through my blood test results and I landed right on the median of the average range in every single category. I’ve lost weight. My blood pressure is good. There’s no chance that I have diabetes. He even liked my blood-oxygenation levels (clear evidence that “unlike most people” I’m actually using my CPAP machine.) And so on.
Basically, at the end of the physical, my doctor told me “Keep up the good work!”
And all things considered, that’s exactly what a soon-to-be-thirty-six-year-old-man wants to hear from his doctor at the end of a physical examination.
This pleases me enormously… if only because, ever since I heard the words “dead of a heart attack by forty” I’ve had a damoclean anxiety worrying away at the back of my mind… and now I feel like I can relax a bit. Not a lot, but a bit.
So there you have it — I officially have a clean bill of health… so long as I don’t backslide, gain fifty pounds, and stop using the CPAP machine.