“Everything comes off and the gown opens in the back,” says the spunky LPN named Sheila on her way out the door.

“Got it!” I say.

Alone in the sparse room, silence fills the air. I’m grateful for the gown-wearing instructions. I can never remember the exact protocol, and maybe the rules have changed since my last visit.

I’m ashamed to admit my last physical was three years ago. I have a bad habit of placing my own health and well-being on the back burner, but I’ve pledged to be more proactive going forward.

Looking down at the cold tile floor, I decide that by “everything” Sheila does not mean socks.

I deeply regret my decision to wear black socks that go up to my calf. They made sense this morning with my black jeans. But paired with the light blue robe, I look like I’m on my way to the kitchen for a late-night bologna sandwich.

“Knock, Knock, all set?” says a pleasant voice from outside the door.  “Ummmmm just a sec. Ok, Yep come on in,” I say still standing, not sure whether or not I was supposed to have climbed up on the exam table yet.

I’ve never been seen by this particular doctor. I’m pleased to see she has shoulder-length silver hair. She also has a kind and non-threatening face, like someone you’d stop on a sidewalk for directions.

“I’ll have you sit over here, first,” she says pointing to the chair by the table in the corner. “Since you haven’t been here in quite a while, I have a bunch of general updates I’d like to review with you before the exam.”

I waddle over and sit down, wrapping the gown beneath me.

“It looks like you had a BIG birthday this year!” she says looking over my chart on her laptop screen.

“Yep,” I say. The birthday she’s referring to was several months ago. To be honest, I’m still adjusting to it.

“Well, it’s a wonderful milestone,” she says turning toward me with warm sunshine in her smile. “But it’s also a time to start thinking about certain things you didn’t have to worry about as much in previous years.”

Upon hearing that, I imagine a scene of great commotion amongst the gazillions of worry cells that already occupy prime real estate in my brain. The scene goes like this:

The worry cells are in the form of those Minion characters from the movie Despicable Me. They’ve gathered together for their weekly meeting in the frontal region of my temporal lobe.

The one named Fiona wearing hydrating plum-colored lipstick and matching overalls announces in a high pitched voice: “Did you hear the news? More worries are coming!!”

The others gasp in unison.

“More worries? But there’s no more room. We’re already filled to capacity!” says the one named Louella holding a clipboard and pushing her way to the front. 

The chaos of minions chattering and panicking then spreads throughout the lobe. 

My attention turns back to the lovely doctor, now going into detail about those “certain things” including blood pressure, cholesterol levels, bone mineral density, early cancer screenings, perimenopause, to name a few.

It’s so strange to hear a doctor discuss these midlife topics as they relate to me.

I’ve been a wife for 24+ years and mother for 18+ years. And each day, I handle all kinds of grown-up situations with reasonable sufficiency. Yet, deep down, I still so often feel like a school-age girl with long pigtails playing dress-up.

Case in point. Late last week while in an upstairs bedroom dusting surfaces that look like they haven’t been dusted since the Industrial Revolution, I came across the old music box that I used to keep on my nightstand when I was a young girl. It’s one of the few objects I have left from my childhood.

I loved that music box so much, from the colorful sketchings of birds and flowers on the exterior to the red silky lining and a miniature ballerina that turns round and round in her gold leotard and white tutu on the interior. The soothing melody would help me feel calm and safe as I drifted to sleep.

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to hear that melody again. But as I turned the music box around, I noticed the little wind-up handle in the back had broken off. I was so disappointed that I nearly wept.

Maybe a part of me was hoping that I could use it to wind back time a little, too.

***

“Well, I’m happy to say I have no specific concerns for you,” the doctor says at the conclusion of the appointment as she hands me a small slip of paper.

Less than ten minutes later, I’m back in street clothes looking out the glass door that leads to the medical building parking lot. It’s now pouring outside. The morning news reported it’s the second wettest season on record. Per usual, I’m unprepared with neither an umbrella nor a raincoat.

I look down at the small slip of paper in my hand. It’s a hand-written list with four instructions. 1.) Schedule a mammogram 2.) Schedule a shingles vaccine 3.) Schedule a colonoscopy 4.) Add a daily Vitamin D supplement of 800 to 1,000 IU per day.

I fold and tuck the list safely inside my purse.

As I push open the door, the girl in long pigtails still living inside me wants to run out into the middle of the rain, jump in puddles, and twirl around like that music box dancer. But, instead, the midlife me who doesn’t want to feel like soggy cereal on the drive home darts to the car.

Before climbing into the driver’s seat, however, in a moment of slight rebellion, I pause to look up at the sky, allowing the splatters of cool Autumn rain and the surge of deep relief and gratitude for today’s report of good health wash over me.

I’m Julie Jo Severson, mom to three teens, freelance writer, editor, and co-author of HERE IN THE MIDDLE: Stories of Love, Loss, and Connection from the Ones Sandwiched in Between. 

This blog, Carvings on a Desk, is where I reconnect with my own voice swirling around in the middle.

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