HEALTH CHECK-IN: AFTER A CERTAIN AGE IT'S JUST PATCH,PATCH,PATCH

Among the challenges of relocating are having to learn the location of the traffic circles so as to avoid them, resigning yourself to hours of staring at the packing boxes marked unessential as you contemplate what to do with the set of Christmas plates from your mother, the beer steins from your uncle and the diplomas, pictures, correspondence, yearbooks and other family memorabilia that date back over a century. And, if that weren’t enough, there are the new docs. I don’t mean documents, although there are plenty of those, too. I’m talking about doctors. And, in your golden years, that means, lots and lots of folks. We spent the first months getting spouse set up, traipsing back and forth to downtown Cleveland multiple times, sometimes in the dark, sometimes in the snow, one time we had to trial-and-error our way home without Google Maps as I had spent a three-hour appointment playing Solitaire on my phone. But in January, we began to concentrate on the rest of the family. A couple of get-to-know-you appointments for me resulted in a series of exciting discoveries such as I needed a new crown for one of my back teeth, a bone density scan, a mammogram, a colonoscopy (always my favorite) a flu shot, a pneumonia shot, a shingles shot, blood tests, urine tests, hearing aids and a (suggested) weight-loss program. My new doc is young, delightful and blunt. When I showed her the nails on my hammertoes she said, “that one in the middle has a fungus. These others might be Melanoma. That’s not a diagnosis. I’m just saying. Melanoma can be fatal. You’d better see a dermatologist.” Dermatologists are scarce on the ground here in Northeastern Ohio so I am still waiting on that. Meanwhile, because I am not a fan of dieting or exercise, I made an executive decision not to worry about the weight issue until or unless I get cleared on all the fatal possibilities. I mean, there’s no point in joining weight watchers if the prognosis is negative. As one rebel wrote in her novel (and I am paraphrasing here): “I decided to forget about losing weight. Shucks. When I die they can just dig a wider hole.” Then, last week, we finally got around to meeting our new veterinarian. The biggest issue for Toby? You guessed it. He is out of shape. “You’re supposed to be able to feel his ribs,” the vet said, plunging his fingers into my dog’s sides. “All I feel is fat.” “What should I do,” I asked. (Like I don’t know.) “Well, you have to change the dynamic so that he is using more calories than he is taking in. You can either do that by feeding him less, walking him more, or” he gazed at me over the tops of his glasses, “best case scenario, both.” And that’s why, in between my hearing aid appointments and follow-ups Pete’s cataract surgeries and follow-ups, and all the other medical stuff, I will spend Valentine’s month dragging Toby up and down the streets of Chagrin Falls. Believe me, I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.