Today I am waiting with a half dozen other old guys to see a doctor.
As the antiseptic tinkle of Muzak pollutes the waiting chamber; bent, bruised, bespectacled, shuffling old farts file in, sign in, and collapse into chairs. Some of us read the wall posters, a two year old Woman's Day magazine or simply slumber in place until our name is gently called then shouted.
Hell, the joint is so quiet and somber it could be a funeral home foyer. Here we are, a bunch of senior men paying good money, or tax payer's good money, to be told we will not get any younger or healthier. Our high blood pressure, sugar, cholesterol, PSA number, arthritic kinks, obesity, sleep apnea, deafness, and incontinence will remain our companions. These conditions are old man things that hang around like the flabby underarm wings of fat we once proudly wore as muscles.
The physicians are players who medicate us out the wazoo and offer cheery words that the next pill or treatment will bring us relief. We wait, politely listen realizing that nothing can stop our dreadful slide from good health to a dirt blanket. Do any of these young doctors or nurses really believe their potions or words can add years or vitality ?
One by one my fellow travelers and I will escape the examination chambers with another prescription or device. If we are lucky no body will get hospitalized or prepped for a gruesome operation. I quietly celebrate leaving the doctor office still alive and able to find my car as the days sunshine folds into the dim coolness of evening.
Dear friends as we gray and shrink from healthiness, it is quite acceptable to enjoy the grim humor of our Final Lap ?
"The bad news is time flies. The good news is you're the pilot."
Michael Althsuler
As the antiseptic tinkle of Muzak pollutes the waiting chamber; bent, bruised, bespectacled, shuffling old farts file in, sign in, and collapse into chairs. Some of us read the wall posters, a two year old Woman's Day magazine or simply slumber in place until our name is gently called then shouted.
Hell, the joint is so quiet and somber it could be a funeral home foyer. Here we are, a bunch of senior men paying good money, or tax payer's good money, to be told we will not get any younger or healthier. Our high blood pressure, sugar, cholesterol, PSA number, arthritic kinks, obesity, sleep apnea, deafness, and incontinence will remain our companions. These conditions are old man things that hang around like the flabby underarm wings of fat we once proudly wore as muscles.
The physicians are players who medicate us out the wazoo and offer cheery words that the next pill or treatment will bring us relief. We wait, politely listen realizing that nothing can stop our dreadful slide from good health to a dirt blanket. Do any of these young doctors or nurses really believe their potions or words can add years or vitality ?
One by one my fellow travelers and I will escape the examination chambers with another prescription or device. If we are lucky no body will get hospitalized or prepped for a gruesome operation. I quietly celebrate leaving the doctor office still alive and able to find my car as the days sunshine folds into the dim coolness of evening.
Dear friends as we gray and shrink from healthiness, it is quite acceptable to enjoy the grim humor of our Final Lap ?
"The bad news is time flies. The good news is you're the pilot."
Michael Althsuler
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