In high school I had two great French teachers, Mrs. Godson and Mrs. Klein — oops, I mean, Madame Godson et Madame Klein. As a result of their efforts, I’ve been able to navigate my way through French-speaking areas over half the world (not including Quebec, since I’m not sure what language is spoken there). Even now I’ve got enough ability with French so I wouldn’t starve to death or dehydrate in Gay Paree.

Also, I still remember a bunch of idioms and phrases. One that came to mind recently was, Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose. It means: The more things change, the more they remain the same. It’s credited to Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr, a 19th-Century French writer — a Gaul with gall, as it were.

I don’t know anything about good ole Jean-B’s life, but if he said that with a straight face, there’s only one of three reasons why. Either he was a raging narcissist, he didn’t have a mirror in his house, or he never went to his high school’s 50th reunion. Because I can tell you from bitter personal experience, you sure as shootin’ do change. I have, and it’s nowhere more apparent than during my annual physical.

Used to be I never had an annual physical, nor did I need one. If I went to a doctor, it wasn’t for a routine checkup but for a very non-routine screw-up — a broken bone, a burn, a chunk of kosher meat either slashed or scraped from my corpus. But sometime in my early 40s the annual physical became a matter of fact. Still, it was no big deal. I went, I got checked out, I sailed through it, and when my test results came back I passed with flying colors.

Suffice it to say, for the past 10 years or so the exam has become an object of dread, as I wonder which of my appendages, organs or systems will start heading south. So far, I’ve had more than my share of good luck, but probably more than my share of anxiety as well.

This all came to a fear-drenched nexus last week.

—

No news is good news …

—

Tupper Lake’s premier Demars Boulevard Demimondier, Pat Bentley, had an outpatient procedure in Burlington, and I went along with him, in case he wanted to ride shotgun on the way back (and so I could score a free meal at Burlington’s premier beanery, Henry’s Diner). Just before he picked me up, I took the dogs out for a head call, and when I came back, there was a message on my answering machine. It was from Nurse Practitioner Amy Garrison’s office, telling me to call them about the test results from my recent annual physical.

Suddenly, every cell in my body freaked and peaked.

But before I had a chance to call back, Pat pulled in my driveway, and we were off. On the way to Burlington I made several calls to Amy’s office but couldn’t reach anyone that knew what, exactly, about my test results they wanted me to know. So I did the only things I could: I gave them my cellphone number and tried to remember where I’d put the original copy of my will.

Next, an old joke came to mind.

A man gets a call from his doctor, who tells him he’s got some bad news.

“What is it?” says the man.

“Well,” says the doctor, “your test results came back, and you’ve got only ten to live.”

“Ten? Ten what?” says the man. “Ten months? Ten weeks? Ten days?”

And the doctor says, “Nine … eight … seven …”

Excessively morbid of me, you say? Maybe. But let’s face it: When did you ever hear of a medico calling a patient to congratulate them on their test results? Besides, I went to my 50th high school reunion — which was already five years ago.

“Sweet mother of God!” I half-sobbed.

“What?” said Pat. “What’s that about?”

“The phone call from Amy Garrison’s office,” I said.

“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” he said breezily.

“Nothing?” I all but shouted, about three octaves higher than my normal speaking voice. “Doctor’s offices do not call people about nothing, especially about nothing concerning their test results.”

He stuttered some sort of half-baked apology that I ignored, too busy worrying about what horrific malady I was now suffering. My mind ran amok.

Once in Burlington, I’d decided that most likely I had one of The Big Three: Bubonic plague, the Green Gambool or Thallium poisoning.

—

… but some news is better than others

—

Pat went into his doctor’s office, and I paced the hospital halls, adrift in a sea of paranoia.

Minutes passed like hours, if not days. Finally my cellphone rang.

It was nurse from Amy’s office.

“Yes?” I squeaked.

“According to your test results, your thyroid numbers are off, so Amy wants you to start taking medication to correct it.”

My thyroid? Just my thyroid? I about burst into simultaneous laughter and sobbing. Compared to The Big Three, a little thyroid glitch was a walk in the park … on a sun-drenched day.

The next day I went into the Post Office Pharmacy to pick up my prescription. But first I asked Jim Bevilacqua about the med’s side effects.

“It doesn’t really have any,” he said.

“How can that be?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “if your thyroid function is off, all the meds will do is correct them.”

“And what if I don’t take the meds?”

“The thyroid controls all sorts of processes,” he said, assuming his professional persona. “It can affect your sleep, your energy level, your weight, your disposition and a lot more. So if Amy Garrison suggested you take it, you probably should give it a try.”

“And the meds can’t cause any bad side effects?”

“Not really,” he said. “If they get the dose right, all it’ll do is make you normal.”

“Make me normal?” I said, raising an eyebrow, waiting for Jim to realize what he’d just said.

A long moment passed, and suddenly he laughed out loud — Bevilacqua loud.

Obviously, the words had sunk in.

Neither of us said any more about it, nor did we need to.

Me, normal?

If the best efforts of my old-fashioned mother, the public school system and the U.S. Navy failed miserably, is one tiny pill a day is going to do the trick?

I doubt it. And I hope I’m right.