Well, I’m back from the doctor’s and I told you I wasn’t really sick. Okay, maybe just a little.

They went though the vitals. Weight, well, we won’t go there, but in my defense, I  had my shoes on and a full glass of water {okay, a four ounce plastic cup} in my hand. My blood pressure was a little high, but near normal for me. Next came an O2 reading with a quizzical look from the technician. I asked her if something was wrong. No, she said, it was higher than she would have thought with the cough and wheeze. {96} Next came my temperature, 98.3. I told you I wasn’t sick.

My nurse practitioner Kathy came in. She heard the wheeze in my breaths and said, “Oh, my.” As she checked my lungs, it was “Hmm”, a longer “Hmmm” and “Oh my”. She ordered a nebulizer treatment and re-checked my lungs. They were a little better, but still filled with “junk.” So an antibiotic was ordered and the diagnosis was bronchitis. Kathy said we caught it early and she was glad I came in when I did.

Then she told me to stay hydrated, take Mucinex to start bringing up some of the junk, throat lozenges if my throat got sore, salt water gargles for the post nasal drip and call if things got worse. I told you I wasn’t seriously sick.

Then the other shoe dropped. Kathy asked me if I was still on my blood pressure and diabetes meds. “No,” I sheepishly said. But I told her I had planned to call her after the holidays to set the baselines again and get back on track. “Do you want me to schedule them now?” she asked.

And she did, with the admonition if she didn’t hear from me by the first week in January, she was going to call me. There you go, from a nurse practitioner the age of my girls.

And of course I got home and hadn’t picked up my prescription. The pharmacy was busy and hadn’t gotten to mine, so I figured I would just get it in the morning. When my daughter-in-law found out, she said, “No. No.” And off she went to the pharmacy to pick it up for me.

So, you see, the girls in my life — from my nurse practitioner, to my daughters and daughters-in-law, to my special friends — will be keeping close tabs on me, despite myself. And Karen is smiling.

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: Our churches should not be museums to display perfect people. They should be hospitals to help the hurting and the lonely.