The Return: Numbers Lie

SIDE NOTE: I'm back to blogging (hopefully) on a more regular basis. I've missed the 0.34 readers I probably still have.

This spring, I finally got around to having my first complete physical in nearly 7 years. Mind you, I've been to the doctor PLENTY in the last 7 years, I just haven't had a complete physical.

The numbers came back, as expected, looking stellar.

• My weight is normal
• My BMI is normal
• My blood pressure is great (it's so low that every single time a new person takes my blood pressure I have to reassure them that I am not ready to pass out/die, that it is, indeed really that low all the time)
• My heart rate is great
• My cholesterol is great
• In short, by the numbers, I LOOK like a perfectly healthy thirtysomething

Fast forward a couple of months to when I recently applied for an increase in my life insurance. I referenced the above numbers, which painted me as the epitome of perfect health. Until they asked for the actual details, not just the numbers.

GULP.

That is when the letter came that they were unsure as to my suitability for a policy increase and I would have to explain several things in order to further review my request. What made them question the perfect picture of young adult (can I still be a young adult? please tell me I'm not middle-aged yet!) health?

Maybe it was the fact that my asthma has grown 50% worse in the last 7 years (or the fact that I have asthma at all). Maybe it was the diagnosis of having a genetic clotting disorder, which now explains the previous mystery DVT I suffered during my last pregnancy, along with some other medical issues. Maybe it was the Zoloft script that was filled - though it still sits untouched in a kitchen cabinet - written during the worst of my anxiety this spring and kept on hand for when Pebbles is no longer dependent on me for a source of food.

And maybe ... it was all three.

I was eventually granted the additional policy, but not before I had to detail, essay-like, how none of the above were likely to kill me tomorrow. Were there risks? Certainly, but no more than my chances of being hit by a bus while crossing the street (which in The Frontier, I must admit, is pretty likely - never have I lived in a place with so many auto v. pedestrian incidents - fortunately the life insurance company is based somewhere else and likely doesn't realize this).

In short,the numbers lie. My body, which has long given me issues - simple and complex, minor and life-threatening, gives the outward appearance of being perfectly normal, but hides two genetic issues that require documentation every single time I go to the doctor, several chronic illnesses (one of which is asthma, worsening with age and the horrible inversion-laden winters of The Frontier) and a massive hormone disaster, chronic headaches, severe anxiety disorder and an ankle that can accurately predict the change in barometric pressure thanks to an unfortunate accident while visiting Detroit nearly a decade ago.

It's no wonder the life insurance company demanded answers - just reading that makes me picture a sallow, listless, old hag coughing up a lung, muttering to herself and limping around on a gimpy ankle.

I'm a regular mess.

But at least, for now, I'm insurable. And in today's day and age, that is really what matters, I guess.

Someone has to pay for the continuation of random incidents that seem to pop up and then prove to be a permanent little black raincloud on my medical record.