Every now and then, I do a stupid.  Yesterday my shoulder hurt a little bit, and I remembered---ohhhh...I'm supposed to get that checked on every 6-8 weeks. Called the clinic, and last time I did it was October.  That's 28 weeks.  Not good.  They got  all excited.

Any time things change, I don't adjust.  My doc in Tulsa would call me.  Give me a print out.  Something.   They don't do that here.  They don't do anything.  You are on your own.  You would think that I would remember.  But I don't.  There are too many medical things to remember.
  
When I called the clinic, the lady who answered the phone said, "What year were you born?"  I told her and she said, "Oh my, we don't see many of those any more."  Duh.  She might as well have said, "You aren't dead yet?"

I am actually in fantastic shape.  God is good.  I can still make it around the block to walk Squig.  I can still lean over and put my hands flat on the floor.  My hearing is perfect.  My sight is fine--so I can read.  I don't have arthritis in my hands so I can type.  I just do what I'm supposed to do to take care of myself--until I forget something.  Any time I have a medical question, I call my brother.  

I began a new book last month on my brother's life.  So interesting.  He worked for NASA for awhile.  Assigned to one of the astronauts.  Went to Med school. China as a missionary.  I've talked to him more in the last month than I have in our entire lives.  My publisher has slowed down because the book stores aren't open.  It's driving me nuts, but until this pandemic is over, they aren't going to do anything with advertising.  The book is finished--ready to go to print.   All the while, the number I give the clinic for my age is growing rarer--and rarer.