There is a saying, at least in our family, that, if you want to Google possible maladies, its almost always better to look at a French website rather than a US one. The former will tell you to take a Dolypran (Paracetamol) whereas the latter will advise immediate surgery. Which is exactly why, after this week’s visit to the doctor, I’ve got myself all in a tizzy.
It all started with the afore-mentioned appointment. To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of GPs including our local one – I don’t think he treated Mumo very well and let’s not go into what happened with Tony and the one in Streatham but since I hadn’t had a health check in five years, I thought best to go and get one done. Doc seemed to think I looked okay for a gal of my age and my vitals were normal so he booked the nurse to come and take my blood. Here, the infirmiere not only comes to your house but at the crack of dawn before you’ve had a chance to boil the kettle – mind you being half-asleep whilst she stabs a needle in your vein is an advantage. I hate needles. Anyway, she took her pint and a half of my precious fluid and popped it into the lab who, I have to say were very speedy and sent me the results the same afternoon. All fine except the one typed in bold and let’s face it, less than one minuscule point outside the box. Naturally, I hit the Google button and not the French one. Well, apparently I should take more care of myself (duh), give up the sinful pleasures (no kidding) and avoid stress (hah). The first two are a no-brainer but the last, well that’s easier said than done although the recent re-appearance of the sun is helping as the belligerent boiler isn’t.
Surprisingly, my eyeballs are doing just fine. Doctor Lefevre’s office wasn’t my only tick off the list of must-do’s this week; I popped into the ophthalmologist’s too. That was a bit of a palaver in itself. For a start, I had to do several circuits of the hospital car park before a spot opened up, then I discovered that the clinic wasn’t in the main building but behind it, with several empty parking spaces right in front of it. Armed with my phone’s QR code message, I then attempted to negotiate my allotted time with the machine right inside the entrance which refused to acknowledge my wiggling screen in front of it so I had to put all the info in manually. The dalek then gave me a ticket to take the reception desk where I was asked exactly the same details that I’d just typed in. “Go to waiting room A” she said. I did. A few minutes later, I was ushered into a room where my eyeballs got a thorough look at before I was then told “go to waiting room B”. I did. Once again, name called and another room for another good peer at my peepers. Suffice to say that an hour later, I had made it through waiting room D and after a quick chat with a very nice optical expert, I exited with just a prescription for new glasses and the advice that I didn’t need to come back for a couple of years.
It’s not that I’ve become obsessed with my health all of a sudden; I eat well and work out regularly but watching a documentary about ways to make you live longer the other night made me realise I have to make some changes. Mind you, the idea that one should face one’s fears in order to boost your body’s defences isn’t exactly what I was thinking of. Since my biggest phobia is heights, Denis reckons I should hang my head out of the top floor window until the feeling of death disappears – not gonna happen. Nephew Maxime had a better idea, his opinion, saying he’d take me flying with him as long as I promised not to freak out and touch a button or three – whilst I trust him implicitly, I do not like aeroplanes either, particularly small ones. I prefer the other of the show’s suggestions – slow down a little and calm the mentals. After all, January’s but a memory and according to local lore, if the first month of the year is pants then the rest of the year is going to be hula skirts…
“Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.” (Mark Twain)
Widow plus woofs 