I'm not keen on any of that stuff. Doctory stuff. Stuff to do with bodies. Fastidious is one word. Impatient is another. I know we need to have bodies to participate fully in the life of this fascinating planet, but why do they have to be so fragile, squashable, prone to disease?
I underwent some hardening in late adolescence/early manhood. These days a job in a hospital would be almost the last thing I'd want to do. Bodies- doctors- diseases- yuk! But then I had two. One lasted six months, the other nearly a year. First I worked with paraplegics in Sheffield, then I worked with the dying in South London. So, I've seen it all- up close- bed sores, cancers, hideous mutilations. I've even laid out corpses. I never got used to it, but I suppose that experience has made it so I can sort of grit my teeth and cope.
I avoid doctors as much as I can. Not knowing about a medical condition is as good as not having it, I reckon. But it looks like they've catching up with me. The doc saw the results of those blood tests I did the other day and has called me in for a chat. Not an urgent chat- so I don't suppose it's anything serious- but clearly there's something out of joint. Probably cholestrol. My dad had to watch his cholestrol- so it would figure. "No more best butter," said Ailz last night, taunting me. Grrrr!
Kit Carson the Indian scout, was told by his doctor that he'd live a bit longer if he laid off the rich foods. His response was to order up a buffalo steak- rare- and a quart of whiskey. I read that story when I was a kid and I've never forgotten it. That's how you should treat the body. Don't take it too seriously. It's a vehicle, a workhorse- "dear brother donkey" as St Francis called it. Get what you can out of it, then move on.
Of course this attitude presupposes a belief in the soul. Which I have. Well-nigh unshakeable, actually.