Knowing that my carcass is to some extent as replaceable (or should I say, as bionic) as an automobile is considerably relieving - though honestly it does nothing to improve my distaste for used goods (which by the way I long ago extended to include that toffee-nosed distinction without a difference; viz., antiques, just another excuse for damaged goods). As much as I abhor renovated anything the irrefutable reality is that, without the benefit of artificial body parts, the remaining journey is guaranteed less seaworthy. Things will just keep getting worse. Whatever can be done to protract the declension is accordingly worthwhile.
Unquestionably an element of this persuasive evolution is the psychiatric appeal of getting things in focus. It is not knowing that one's hearing is going or that one's eyes are clouding or that your gums are receding. That much is evident. Rather it is the manifest deliverance from the abyss. Ignorance is the bottomless chasm. Teetering on the edge of the void is no way to encourage an afternoon drive or an evening meal, not to mention the agony of trying to sleep at night amidst the venomous kerfuffle.
I am nonetheless prepared to accept the learned opinion of my advisors that not everything is discernible - other than decline. The last thing I want to become is a fiend for botox. My outpost for this rebellion is pain killer. If for example I am diagnosed with osteoarthritis (as, frankly, I have been), inscrutable neuropathy (ditto) or an uncertain spinal condition (the same), there is no point imagining a complete makeover. For one thing it is preposterous; for another it is a waste of the public expense. What does however matter is the effort to consult people who know about these things, to make the enquiry and then to draw the conclusion. And then buy the drugs. Notwithstanding my history of investigation it wouldn't be the first detail I turned over more than once for further examination. The guiding light is knowledge, not conjecture.