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Well, that was a slap in the face with a wet fish, my mother used to say.

No idea what that must be like for the fish, either, come to think of it…

I speak of having had my annual (which, for me, usually means each decade) physical.

They’re nothing we especially look forward to, are they? We hope everything sounds fine beneath the stethoscope, that lymph nodes are flat and unremarkable when pressed, that as the blood pressure collar releases its python-like grip, the numbers revealed are in the normal category.

And they were! 117/70, resting heart rate 60, BMI excellent. The icing was that all subsequent blood work would be within the normal range as well. Parrrrtay!

Then, the energy in the room came to a grinding halt.

“You’re coming up for your first Medicare Wellness check,” observed my doctor. “Would you like to answer a few questions?”

“If it won’t take too much time,” I hesitated, biting my tongue, which felt compelled to bristle and remark. “But why would you be asking those questions to a 30-year-old woman?”

Honestly, I get it. I get how this is a gathering of personal data in which to monitor one’s health as they grow older. But as the questions—really depressing questions— went on I could quite literally feel my bone density begin to crumble and my posture slump towards frailty.

“Do you ever have feelings of despair or hopelessness?”

“Only if the Panthers are playing,” I quipped.

My doc gave a wan smile as he waited for me to continue.

“Er, no. No signs of depression.”

“Do you have enough to eat?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever run out of food?”

“Sure, but only because both of us hate to grocery shop. Then we eat cocktail peanuts.”

“How often to you speak with family or friends?”

“Well, Paul and I speak every day and the rest of the time I’m interrogating the dogs and cats over who got into the garbage. I also sing to the horses.”

Doc lifted an eyebrow.

I caught his look. “Roxy Music. Anything from the Avalon album. Best album, ever.”

“Any issues with your memory?”

“Roxy Music. Anything from the Avalon album. Best album, ever.”

“How many units of alcohol do you consume each week?”

“Define unit.”

“An ounce.”

“Oh, OK, so not a bottle, whew. Currently just units of Kombucha.”

“Red meat?”

“Not for over 30 years.”

I felt myself begin to brace for the final question because I knew what it was. I remember it being asked of my mother. Surely I wasn’t this old. Surely! But launched it was, targeting my cockiness like a heat seeking missile…

“Are there any throw or scatter rugs in your home?”

Noooooooooooo! There it was with all its hideous implications: Have you had any falls, hon? Beginning to feel a bit unsteady on your legs? Have you got you some grab rails in the shower?

It was over, and I felt as if I’d just experienced time travel: striding into the medical suite fresh from a shower after working three horses and unloading a truck bed of hay, no prescriptive meds or body fat…and hobbling out in Velcro fastened support shoes, a walking stick and a kit to measure blood sugar.

I squared my shoulders, got in the truck and gunned the engine hellbent on my mission:

Off to Lowe’s to buy three new scatter rugs.