Not Dave. But you get the idea.
We love our mechanic, Dave at Flourtown Gulf. Great guy. He’s never made us feel (too) guilty when we clattered into the station, having long neglected the weird smell when we turned on the ignition, or the illuminated “check engine” light, or the wobbly steering wheel. As a result, we have become quite responsible car owners (at least Steve has). Someday, we may even bring Old Betsy in EARLY for regularly scheduled maintenance!
Alas, I treat my body the way I treat my motor vehicle. I ignore all the warning signs, and defer every manner of test and scan until crisis time. My “annual” mammograms become “triennials.” My colonoscopies are several decades apart. Until last year, I was so delayed going to the dentist that I seriously considered just having all my teeth pulled and opting for dentures-in-a-glass instead.
I have to confess that this bodily neglect is nothing new. I grew up in a household where no one did ANYthing on time (or, Heaven forbid, ahead of time). Our pediatrician visits were haphazard at best, as was our dental work (look in my mouth—it’s a graveyard of ancient fillings). So, I had no healthy role models! There! That’s my excuse!
Later, as impoverished young marrieds, Steve and I could only afford “Major Medical” insurance, which meant we were probably covered for, say, a quadruple bypass (after paying a hefty deductible of course), but not for simple physicals. We therefore decided regular checkups were out of budget. Luckily, we were pretty healthy folks, so for years we skated by, mostly sans doctors.
It was only during my five pregnancies that I became a faithful caretaker of my physical container. Why was I so scrupulous about drinking milk and not wine, eating leafy greens, taking naps and walks and seeing the OB precisely on schedule? Because I wasn’t doing it for ME. I was doing it for THE BABY. As soon as said infant was safely out in the world, I rapidly slid back into the old routine of indolence, happy hours and salty snacks, because who cared now?
I have been a pretty good girl when it comes to my mental health, though, only because my onset of bipolar was such a nightmare. To keep a recurrence of mania and depression cycles at bay, I see my psychiatrist on a regular basis, and faithfully take my meds. I truly prioritize my sanity. Yet I somehow don’t make the same “wellbeing” connection when it comes to checking my eyesight and suspicious-looking skin lumps and bumps.
You know what I need? I need a Dave. I need to haul myself into a service bay in his garage once a year for a tune-up (no scolding), and get a lovely inspection sticker to plaster on my forehead. Dave’ll fix what needs fixing quickly and reasonably, so I can get back out on the road for another year.
And if anyone says I procrastinate, I can just say, “Tell it to the sticker.”
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