What Kills You Today Might Not Be What Kills You Tomorrow

Several years ago I found a new doctor, someone recommended by a a couple of former co-workers. I'd returned the favor and recommended a massage therapist, who was originally recommended to me by my sister. My sister no longer visits the massage therapist, and my co-worker no longer visits the doctor. The massage therapists has some heavy duty personal stuff going on now, so she isn't working much. I don't know if I'll see her again for a long time. 

But all of that is history. I want to talk about my doctor who, for the most part, isn't too bad. He seems to care. When we first met, I told him all I know about my family's medical history, and he took lots of notes, which he still has because his office hasn't gone digital so everything about me is in a folder that grows large each year. I told him that I was worried that one day I'd wake up and have what eventually killed my mother, but he said not to worry because odds are that what killed my father and grandfather would probably be what killed me. They spent less time dying than my mother did, an approach that has good on one hand and not so good on the other.

But back to the doctor. Not long ago I got to enjoy a somewhat lengthy diagnostic procedure that led to the discovery of one thing but no evidence of another, previously suspected thing. Not long after that during a follow-up visit with my doctor, I told him of the procedure's results (different doctor), and he became suddenly concerned. "Did your mother have this or this?" he asked. I told him that I have no way of knowing, that I don't come from a family in which people share such things but also don't think my mother had what he wanted to know if she had. "Well, there's some evidence of a link between what your diagnoses is and what your mother did have, what she died of." So, there's that. "I thought you said that I don't have to worry about that, that I'll probably die the way my dad did," I said.

He didn't seem interested in that statement. Instead, he pulled out a form and asked me to fill it out, to gather as much medical history of my family that I can. "What about such-and-such tests to see if I'm likely to have what my dad had," I ask. "Those tests might miss something," he said. "They're not 100% accurate."  Okay, well, I knew that; it's the nature of nearly all such tests. But, apparently, there's no test to check if I have (or will have) what killed Mom.

I know the guy is trying to be thorough an honest, even proactive. I appreciate that. As I said, he seems to care. Now, though, he's got me at least a little concerned about things maybe I shouldn't worry about. As of yet, I've not completed the form he gave me, and in fact I found it on the workbench in my garage just the other day. He also points out on every visit that I am, to pull no punches, too fat--as though I need him to tell me that. When I see him again next spring, I'm sure he'll have a few things to discuss. Maybe there'll be something new to worry about then, something else that might kill me.