I have clueless friends. They seem happy just being alive.
These days, I see myself in the mirror and see what I now look like alive, and I am not all that happy.
For starters, I’m no longer pretty. I always thought I’d be pretty. And getting older wasn’t supposed to happen.
But getting older did happen. And since it took an assist from many doctors, what say we do a little medical journaling here.
First, though, you may be asking yourself, what qualifies him to write about medicine?
It’s my history. I’m a bit of a train wreck.
Personally, I consider myself quite healthy. I routinely put in a couple of miles walking on the golf course; cut, split and stack several cords of wood each year and can still throw a 50-lb. bag of dog food over my shoulder.
Weak, I am not. I just have trouble avoiding doctors.
50-lbs of cat litter. Dog food sounded more romantic.
There have been two bouts with cancer and a triple bypass, so yeah, I go big, go home and somehow manage to start all over again.
Cardiologist, oncologist, pulmonologist, urologist… if you're an -ologist, there’s a good chance I know you.
My latest is a neurologist. The last round of radiation damaged my thyroid and what were minor essential tremors have been called up to the big leagues. Before determining appropriate treatment, neurology is trying to determine if there’s a problem with my brain.
Hold yer tongue! I got feelings, you know.
Medicine is always moving forward, getting better. Examples: hip replacement is now frequently out-patient. So is gall bladder surgery. Good stuff.
But I’m starting to learn just how good medicines is. We’re apparently circling back on some things we had previously determined were unhealthy.
My PA is a woman in her mid-30’s. She’s attractive and calls me ‘baby.’ Have I told you that before? If so, then I probably have told you I like that.
I do.
Noticing my triglycerides were high, she asked if I drank beer. Since I don’t lie to my doctors about anything, I affirmed for her that I love a good beer as much as I love my wife and indeed a brew or two are usually a part of my daily routine.
She told me my tri’s love the carbs in beer, and I should ditch the beer and opt for bourbon.
Read that again, if you need to: Stop beer… drink bourbon. Scotch is also fine.
More recently, I saw my general doc for my semi-annual visit.
“Looks good,” he says. “Your iron could use a little boost. You could take a small daily supplement. Or do you like liver?”
Indeed I do. “Does fried liver and onions count?”
Indeed it do.
“A little once a week would probably bring those numbers right up.”
Hot o’mighty!
Let me recap, y’all. I am now under doctor’s orders to drink bourbon and eat liver and onions.
Tears swell as I break down weeping gently. With joy.
I’ll bet on my next visit they’re going to recommend I take up smoking. Or start eating more gravy, perhaps drinking it directly from a cup.
Let’s call it a biscuit bypass. Or gravy, straight.
I do wonder sometimes if my doc and PA get together as I’m leaving and say to each other, “You know that $#@%’s gonna kill him, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” says the other. “But he’ll go down happy.”
That seems like a good trade-off.