Unless they catch me or I myself suspect a serious problem (like three band-aids won’t stop the bleeding) I do not go regularly to a doctor. I do not even have a primary care physician, depending upon the gynocologist I used to go to on a fairly regular basis (every four years?) to at the very least glance up at my face now and again.
But an appointment I thought I had to reschedule was rescheduled by the cardiologist’s all too efficient office staff and I must face him, go toe to toe with him this morning. He’s tough; he looks me in the eye.
Do I still feel yucky? Yes.
Have I been exercising? Good God, no! I don’t even have the will to make a sandwich much less hop on a bike.
Have I switched to decaf? No. Would you give up chocolate for the rest of your life?
Have I stopped smoking? Maybe. The stress level’s gone down a bit and the depression makes me reluctant to open my mouth wide enough, so yes, I think finally I might have.