If even the healthiest people on earth find themselves occasionally worrying about their mortality, suffice it to say that as a smoker, drinker, sun-worshipper, exercise-hater and lover of decadence in all its forms, I'm pretty much constantly convinced that I am on the verge of death. Naturally, I've taken the sensible route and decided to do absolutely nothing about it. In fact, if anything, my morbid conviction has served only to bolster my bad behaviours, the thought process being that I might as well go out with a bang.
All this to say that I’m very much not who you might imagine to sign themselves up for a health scan. But something changed soon after my 30th birthday, and it (sadly) wasn’t my bad habits. Faced with the inescapable fact that I was, against all odds, ageing, I had the sudden urge to find out where my health really stood, rather than simply imagining the worst. Because blissful ignorance is all well and good when it’s actually blissful, but if it’s laced with underlying, ever-building anxiety and the fear that every minor ailment is the start of my final demise, then it’s not quite so much fun after all.
