More Questions From An 85-Year-Old
(First, a bit of book news. “I Should Have Married My World History Teacher (Confessions of a Hoosier Class Clown)” should be published by the end of the year. It’s about how much fun I had growing up in Frankfort, Indiana, and how much trouble I got into.)
MORE QUESTIONS FROM AN 85-YEAR-OLD GENT
WHERE DO THEY GO? The blueberries that don’t quite make it to my mouth a couple of times a week. I like blueberries on my cereal, and nearly every time I have them at least one of those blue devils will escape, will fall (or maybe jump) out of my spoon. But where does it go? It’s not on my lap. I search the floor around me. No sign of that little dickens. I push my chair back from the table, lift the cushion off the chair. Nothing. No sighting of a blueberry. It’s never found. Maybe one of these days I should parade around the breakfast table in a pair of white socks and see if that leads to discovery. Is there a colony of blueberries hiding in our kitchen? Not a clue.
WHY DO THEY DO THAT? You go to the orthopedist in pain. Xrays are taken. The doctor comes in, looks at the xrays, starts pressing on things (would they like it if patients started poking all over them?), and then the doctor hits pay dirt. He presses the one place where when touched you believe in Jesus again. Oh, do you. When the Jesus spot is discovered, the doctor is so pleased, his poking skills in evidence again. He (it’s usually a “he”) discusses options, and cortisone is frequently one of them. You’ve had good luck over many years with cortisone, so you agree to that.
He leaves the room. In a minute or so, in comes a nurse (at least I hope she’s a nurse and not an Uber driver who has dropped off lunch for the doctor and staff). In her hands are a needle and cotton and little packets of things. She puts her load on the table and leaves, claiming the doctor will be in shortly. He won’t and you know it. You have the newspaper with you and try to read, but you keep looking over at the counter at that needle. Is it always that long? (I suggest readers take a second look at that last sentence and then make the smuttiest comment they can think of.) You know the shot is going to hurt, not real awful bad but bad enough. Time goes by. No doctor yet. When he does show up again, his poking resumes and he searches anew for the Jesus spot. OUCHHHH! He found it. He marks the spot, that’s where the needle will go.
How sacrilegious can he be, making a mark on the Jesus spot? He sprays you as though you are a grill about to have pancake batter splatted on it and inserts the needle. You feel it and feel it and then, did he just twist the damn thing? It sure feels like it. He asks, “Are you okay?” You lie. Anyone married for more than 60 years is an expert at lying. “I’m okay,” you say. After some small talk, he leaves. You now struggle to get your shirt back on, using the only hand that is still working, still cortisone and pain-free. Overall not that terrible of an experience IF you’re feeling better by the evening. Plus these orthopedic people have the best ballpoint pens that you get to keep.
WHY IS THAT? Before you got into the car to head to the doctor, one of the neighbor boys — a twin about two and one half years old — is in his yard and smiles at you and waves. You wave back and smile. Why is that the absolutely best part of your day?
#aging
