You Sure About That, Doc?

So don't believe what the doctors say,

They're just making things up so they can get paid,

It's not me they're talking about, anyway,

So don't believe what the doctors say.



-Dave Alvin, "The Man In The Bed"

I miss my old doctor.

Don't get me wrong, I like my new one too. But my old one, who retired a couple of years back, had the same twisted sense of humor as me. I could say, "Doc, it hurts when I do this," and he would come back instantly with, "Well, don't do that." I also liked having a doctor who was, shall we say, able to cast some shade. I suspect it made it harder for him to chastise me about my own weight. My new one disappears if he turns sideways and looks like he could run a marathon tomorrow, without training. And he does get after me for my pudge. Grrr.

At the end of last month I had a physical--necessary for me to accompany the boys to Philmont this summer. In the course of it I had the expected lectures about needing to lose weight and get into shape to be able to withstand the rigors of the New Mexico mountains. He also ordered blood tests, and explained to me that there was a change in procedures these days for treating hypertension and cholesterol in men. He explained that now, they would take into account my vital signs, my blood test results, my family history, etc., etc., and issue a "cardiovascular score." Apparently I wanted to earn a 4% or less--which would mean, he explained, that if we took 25 men of my exact same age, condition, history, and etc.s, then over the next decade, one out of the 25 of us would have some sort of "cardiovascular event." Given the level of nagging, I thought he expected me in double digits.

This week I got my results. Apparently my cardiovascular score is a 2.1%.

I had to laugh out loud, which caused me nearly to choke on the Oreos I was scarfing while on the couch watching mindless TV and definitely not exercising.

You sure you got the right guy, Doc? I mean, I'm 22 years away from the age when my dad was found to need multiple coronary bypasses and died as a result of the surgery. I know I'm not as fluffy as Gabriel Iglesias, but I take more after him than not--I know I'm back up to just shy of the weight I was at in 2006 when I said Enough. My diet is hardly ideal, I'm sure, and as for exercise, well, I'm most fond of pushing paper. I do the Philmont workup hikes, I've even been spotted in the gym downstairs at work this year a handful of times. But at 2.1 rating? Color me skeptical.

In looking through the blood test results, I see my cholesterol is still well within the good range. I remember my first cholesterol test years ago; the number came back so low Mary and I promptly went out for a steak dinner.

I don't think, though, that steak dinners are called for this time. Maybe it's that first statistic--that I'm 2/3 of the way to the age my dad died--that brings a little more circumspection to the process. I have every expectation that Philmont will wring a couple of pounds off my frame. And I know I ought to do better. So I don't find myself celebrating the 2.1 score. It's more of a "yeah, sure, whatever," and back to the difficult work of slowly becoming middle-aged.