New city. New doctor. New year. It’s time for my physical.
This always seems like asking for trouble. I’m feeling decent. Why turn over rocks looking for stuff?
First step, the weigh in. I unloaded my pockets as if the weight of my keys, cellphone and wallet would make a difference. The scale read at least ten pounds less than I actually weigh. They do that to cut down on complaints, right?
I had a long session with the doctor. I like him a lot. Obviously intelligent. Seemingly competent.
I take Vitamin C and a multivitamin. “Why,” he asked?
As of tonight, no more.
He did a physical exam. No problems there.
He adjusted one medication, looking for the sweet spot, then renewed prescriptions for some others.
A nurse came in to administer a few injections and draw blood. She was nice. It didn’t hurt. I was still scared s**tless of the procedure.
Why, as a grown man who’s had dozens of shots in my lifetime, am I still panicky at the thought of a needle? Why is that fear so strong it trumps reality?
The average life expectancy in the United States is 78. I’m trying to be above average.