I had my physical the other day. Actually it was the post-physical appointment where the doctor went over all the test results with me. The physical itself was a huge undertaking with all sorts of procedures and exams and x-rays and more, including fasting bloodwork that wasn’t completed until late in the afternoon. It’s a wonder I didn’t faint.

The doctor started with the results of that bloodwork, and he was quite pleased. The iffy numbers from my last labs were replaced by excellent numbers this time around. I’m nowhere near diabetes either, which is cause for celebration. In fact, according to the labs I’m in great shape. Then we looked at the cardiovascular age that one of the fancy-schmancy machines calculated for me, and, (drum roll please), it concluded that my heart age is a good decade younger than my real age. Fantastic!

We went over several other tests, all good, then arrived at one the doctor didn’t like. It was a blood pressure test that was done on both arms, both thighs, both ankles, and both big toes. It was horribly painful, especially on my thighs.  It felt more like a trip to the middle ages than modern medicine. As I waited for my bones to be crushed into dust I repeated over and over in my head, “this won’t last, this won’t last.” Thankfully I was right.

The doctor pointed out that one of the numbers from that test didn’t match the others. He told me that he didn’t like it because it was an indication of trouble. But what about the other tests? They were all good. Really good, in fact. Nope, he wasn’t having it. So much for my decade of leeway. He told me it didn’t count since I had this other thing going on. Phooey.

He gave me some directions to follow to get things under control, including once again reminding me that I need to lose a significant amount of weight. Naturally diet and exercise were discussed, and I get it, but I can’t help but feel cheated. Everything else was good. Really, it was. If we hadn’t done that one horrible test I would have walked out of there on cloud nine. I would have been the picture of health. Instead I was a time bomb. My words, not his. He is far more tactful than that. In spite of the doctor’s seriousness, I decided to push that little bit of negative news to the back of my brain and focus on the positive. I’m a positive person, after all.

I went home and told my sweetheart all the things the doctor and I discussed. I told him that I was going to focus on the positives, and that the doctor couldn’t just negate all of them with the results form that one additional test from hell. My sweetheart disagreed.

As always, he made his point briefly and clearly. He told me that it doesn’t matter how healthy you are otherwise when you’ve got your leg caught in a bear trap. Seriously? Damn. So my healthy lungs and my normal blood sugar and my perfect vitamin D level are all happy accidents. They’re nice, but once my leg is in that bear trap they become irrelevant. All efforts must be focused on escaping from the trap, and whether my vision is perfect or my skin is clear becomes way less important.

He’s right of course. He usually is. Now I not only have to keep all the good things good, but I have to work my way out of this most recent snafu. What a mess. Still, it can’t be ignored. After all, you can’t get far once you’re caught in a trap.