I had two doctor's appointments today, two hours and fifteen minutes apart. Each lasted less than 10 minutes, but the process took most of the afternoon, driving to the first one, waiting, figuring out something to do between appointments, driving to the next one, waiting, then driving home. And the upshot?
1. Watch gum adjacent to recent root canal for any swelling.
2. My overall physical condition is "stable." Which was not what I was looking for. The words "healthy" and "fine" come to mind, but that is not what my considerably younger primary care doctor chose. "Stable" says to me, "On the trajectory of late middle age, you're holding your own."
My primary care doctor has precisely cut short hair with the first hints of gray, wears a tidy black pantsuit, and rolls a typing table with a laptop computer on it into the examining room ahead of her. She is very cheerful, but I can almost see her checking off a list in her head titled "Early Geriatric: What to Watch Out For." She is concerned about the drought in Texas and the dust storms in Phoenix (small talk). She loves that another doctor recommended ginger tea, which she says is a long-time Chinese remedy. And I should not be a weenie about getting a shingles shot.
I don't want to be bullshitted about the perils of aging. Really. I like that my doctor is sensible and cautious, and I know there's only one possible end to this story, way down the road, I hope. On the up side, I feel as good as I ever have about how my life has gone, and it's getting easier to wring the richness out of the moments that are dished up. Even so, that word "stable" gave me a pang.
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