Running the Numbers

I saw my young dentist on Tuesday.  He was sporting a big, red bump and a long vertical scar on his forehead.  He earned his injuries in a cycling accident. “I’m just glad I didn’t damage my teeth.  I see a lot of that in here,” he said.

Short-term ribbing aside, my dentist will carry on and the cycling accident will be forgotten.  There is so much more to him than a rare fall from a bike.  If he turns up in a doctor’s office for another reason, no one will ask him:  “Any falls recently?”

If I walked into a provider’s office with a lump like that on my forehead, I wouldn’t be worried about my teeth; I would be worried about my freedom.   Adult Protective Services would be called. I would be one stitch away from the nursing home.  My argument that suffering a fall while switching clothes from the washer to the dryer was a mere cycling accident would not save me.  And that fall would haunt me at every future encounter with a medical professional.  For my young dentist, his fall is seen as an aberration, for me and my peers it is seen as state’s evidence that we are incompetent and becomes a stain on our permanent record cards.

Growing older is like driving around with the car’s check engine light illuminated.  What now?

Medical appointments are the new second career.  And health care professionals don’t really see older folks.  Now that the number of procedures performed has toppled patient well-being as a performance indicator for doctors, they look at us and see dollar signs.  And don’t get me started on the pharmaceutical companies.  I was in high school when the War on Drugs began.  It went about as well as the Vietnam War. 

I admit it; my aging body appears to be in shambles.  I don’t really want to look at it any more than my doctor does, and I am equally good at avoiding doing so.  No matter how many miles I walk or how many leg lifts I do, time and genetics continue to conspire against me. Even if I get to Fort Knox before Donald Trump, I don’t think there are enough gold bars in there to cover all of the procedures I would need to lift every part of me that has fallen.  Even my eyelids are sagging.  There isn’t a stylist out there who could put together a flattering outfit for these proportions.  My best look might be a body bag.

But it’s what’s inside that counts right?

I’d like to say that my good heart and clear conscience make up for the raggedy exterior, but that’s not the what’s inside I’m talking about here.  No siree.  You should see my labs! 

Popeye said, “I yam what I yam.”  Well, so yam I.  I should know; I’ve eaten enough of them.  When Euell Gibbons asked, “Ever eat a pinecone?”  I didn’t laugh, I took notes.  Chipping teeth aside, I do think Grape Nuts are effective.

I am constantly studying the literature on healthy aging and trading notes with friends.  The homework never ends.  I can list ten ways to lower cholesterol faster than I can shout out the Ten Commandments.  I anticipate my lab results like the impending birth of a child.  When any of my lab test results come back within the normal range, I want to send out announcements or put up a yard sign:  An honor roll student lives here.  And if I make it out of a doctor’s appointment without a prescription or a referral, I rush straight to the nearest convenience store to buy a lottery ticket.

I try to imagine a new kind of beauty pageant for seniors, one in which it’s what’s inside that counts. Instead of the MC reading the contestants’ heights, weights, and body measurements, they read our best lab results out loud and everyone cheers as we walk the runway in comfortable shoes and sweatpants.  Instead of a Miss Congeniality Award, there would be a special honor for the lowest A1c.  Even better for seniors, this is a pageant that could take place remotely.  Just email your numbers.  No risk of falling on the runway.