My doctor, who looks at everything like it’s Godzilla, is concerned.
A friend of mine, a couple years my senior, also has low iron, but his doctor isn’t as worried as mine.
Should I just go see him so he can say…there there…don’t you worry, or continue to not sleep and bite my nails?
That’s all any of us want – reassurance, comfort and an occasional lie.
Me being me, those wheels of catastrophic thinking have been turning for a week even though I’ve been through an iron drop a year ago. I successfully raised it by eating more spinach than Popeye proving a condition can really change by a shift in diet.
Of course once it went up I went back to pizza and cheap chocolate figuring, that was that.
Lots could happen in a year, so am I checking out possibly before Christmas with iron poor blood?
Where’s Geritol (and Freud) when you need it?
Part of it is age. When I was in my 20s, 30s and even 40s, I never ever went to a doctor unless it was something serious, you know, like a drive-by shooting.
Now a cuticle cracks and I’m in his waiting room updating my will.
My friend Ed says, we’re all headed for the grave anyway, so just lighten up and assume it’s not today…a cheerful thought.
I try taking this advice, but find it requires alcohol and a limitless Visa card.
Part of my problem is never being sick until my hearing went south a year ago. You’re like a racehorse, my then doctor would say. Now I’m one who needs a weekly stress test.
When Bette Davis said, old age ain’t no place for sissies, she wasn’t just whistling Dixie.
What I need is to relax, remind myself the sun’s out and have a little more spinach to show my alleged anemia who’s boss.
I yam what I yam after all, just with a limited iron supply.