I'm not sure if this is before or after. It could go either way.

Ready, Sit, Go

 

My doctors are out to get me.

When I was younger I didn’t go to the doctor.

Now I have four. I’m playing Doctor Bingo and my card is almost full. I hope I don’t need one for the free spot. Or maybe I only want one for the free spot.

My doctors all have different priorities depending on which body part is about to wear out.

It’s like playing a Reality Version of Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.

Don’t tell them, but so far my toes are doing fine.

They only agree on one thing.

They all think I should exercise.

Except I’m not allowed to stand up.

It’s like telling Bobby Flay to make dinner for twelve without stirring.

Since I’ve been sidelined, I’ve been watching cooking shows. Which could be part of the problem. They make me hungry. Not for ordinary stuff you can get in the cookie aisle at Ingles, but stuff that requires Chantilly cream or mascarpone, or homemade meringue. Maybe we could start a food train with famous chefs.

But let’s get back to the action. Or lack of action.

When I stand up, I’m likely to fall over. If I try a daredevil move like, say, walking, it’s double down. So to speak.

You don’t get odds like that at the Kentucky Derby. So I use a cane, or grab the arm of whoever is passing by, which is something the Derby horses don’t get to do, so I figure I’m better off than a two million dollar racehorse.

Which also means jumping jacks are out. Or jogging. Or reading magazine articles that say, “Walk Yourself Thin.”

Years ago, I used to walk around the mall and stop for a biscuit on the way out. My clothes didn’t fit, but I felt great and never got hungry. So we should be sure to support our malls for health reasons.

But now my doctors say I have to keep both feet on the floor.

So I get to exercise SITTING DOWN.

What’s the worst part of exercise besides smelling like a racehorse? Getting tired, of course. It always held me back in gym class and shopping marathons.

I figured I would eliminate the getting tired part and the rest would be easy. I put on a hairband with pink sparky cat ears to hold my hair out of my eyes. You can still look cute and exercise when your’re sitting down.

 I turned on a video.

An hour later I couldn’t drag myself across the finish line.

How do they think of so many things to do sitting down? I was tired.

So I went shopping online.

Sitting down.

Turns out the bakery delivers.

 

 

 

 

 

A picture of me wearing sunglasses so
you won't recognize me after reading this post.

Poop Positive

The story you’re about to read is true. The names have not been changed

because of course this would happen to me.

 

How bad does it have to be when the Poop-by-Mail people throw away your colon cancer test sample?

It happened to me.

You know the place. They have those commercials with the talking blue and white box and people singing “I Did It My Way.”

Which is not a tribute to Frank Sinatra.

The doctor was firm. It was either the home game in the blue box or a close-up visit with Colonoscopy Guy in a sterile room. I thought respect came with age, but with all the medical tests, I don’t have any personal boundaries left.

But back to the Do and Dash people who threw away my sample.

Did I offend them? I can’t conceive of what you have to do to offend people whose business involves getting poop in the mail.

Is it a good day or bad day when they get a ton of mail? The day after a holiday do they argue over who gets to open the extra mail? Do they get junk mail?

When you have a bad day at work, remember you’re not the one opening the mail at the Poop Place.

How do they decide which ones to keep and which ones get pitched in the dumpster?

I was very careful to follow the instructions which were in a book the size of War and Peace. I thought it was written in code until I realized that I was looking at the part written in Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish. Some days I don’t even speak English very well. I thought it was one of those books where you get to choose the ending.

Which brings us back to me.

I received, via the United States Postal Service, a notice that my sample had been discarded.

I mean, really?

It hurt my feelings. I felt like. . .well, I felt bad.

Nobody likes to think they’re not worth. . .that they’re not important.

Then I received a phone call.

From the nice lady at the poop place. She explained that my prescription had expired.

First I was very excited. I was worth. . .I was not inferior after all.

But, wait. Poop needs a prescription?

I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.

I contacted my doctor who gave me another prescription, and everything went according to plan.

Except the test is known to have false positives and false negatives. Kind of like the Algebra tests I failed in high school.

So I got a positive which was negative.

And ended up with the consolation prize - a close-up meeting with Colonoscopy Guy who was very nice and made sure I had a nice nap and pleasant dreams.

It was just what the doctor ordered.

 

 

 Fashion Forward

Clad in Star Wars finest - Vintage Hand-Me-Up BB8 TShirt.
Not pictured{Black pants, flowered Skechers, no socks, dog making fun.)

I hoped that by the time I reached the seasoned age of 65, I would have plucked the fruits of wisdom, experience, and knowledge from the Tree of Life. Instead, what I have plucked is a situation where a husband who can’t tell stripes from plaid is in charge of my wardrobe. How hard can it be to see if the lines cross?

Remember when Daddy dressed the kids and their teacher thought they’d run away from home? It’s like that, but with the added adventure of foundation garments.

I’m not man bashing. I’m fortunate to have a husband who has taken over every household chore now that walking to the bathroom has turned into an Olympic event for me. He’s not only mastered all of my secret recipes, he has cracked every excuse I ever invented for ordering pizza instead of peeling potatoes.

The trouble comes when I need to wear matching clothes for, say, a trip to the specialist of the day. The time has come when I collect doctors like a lumberjack collects splinters. Neurologist, orthopedist, cardiologist--I’m looking for two more ists to make a full house. Each one wants to feel my ankles and tell me to drink more water. I considered contacting Aquaman for a consultation, but Jason Momoa thwarted that plan when he took out the restraining order.

I don’t mind the clothes adventures as much as the comments from passers by when we go out. Here in the South, we have a saying, Bless Your Heart, that means everything from “I’m sorry to hear about your mama,” to  “dumb as a sack of hammers.” I’ve been blessed enough times in the past year to earn me the favored spot in grandaddy’s toolbox.

Getting ready for a doctor’s appointment, I allow an extra 4-6 weeks to allow for searching for clothes that have got lost in the laundry or have been donated to charity due to unfortunate bleach or spaghetti sauce incidents.

The following interaction may or may not be true:

Bill: “How about these pants?”

Fashion Victim: “They’re yours.”

Bill: “That’s good. Everything goes with khaki.”

FV: “And they’ve got those handy cargo pockets to hide problem thighs.”

I won’t go into the difference between navy and black (there is none) or socks that match (they don’t) and have sacrificed all claim to jewelry that can’t be clamped on or stuck on with adhesive. Two-sided tape is no longer a luxury.

Shopping online, I purchased a navy and white striped top that could be worn with any of the ten pairs of navy blue pants hanging in my closet at any given time. Last Tuesday I sallied forth to the doctor in a black and tan shirt, blue pants, and school bus yellow socks festooned with pictures of racoons.

The receptionist smiled sweetly and spoke.

“Bless your heart.”

That’s it. No more doctor trips for me. But when you call for Emergency Responders, tell them to bring extra socks.

 

THE DOCTOR IS IN

For those of you who gaze wistfully in the distance when I mention being retired, please understand that this life is fraught with difficulty, but is waiting nonetheless for you, too, to arrive at the day you can take your morning shower at three in the afternoon if you so desire.

For instance, my action-packed schedule today left no time for reading my overdue library book or baking banana muffins.

Today I ate breakfast in bed. (Thanks #2 Son who is not afraid to employ technological advances, such as Door Dash, for our mutual benefit.)

I had a post-breakfast nap.

And I had a doctor visit.

 I did all this without venturing outside in the cold or taking off my bunny slippers. Well, I didn’t put my bunny slippers on until after the nap, so technically I just had them on for the doctor, who wasn’t aware of having a conversation with a woman wearing, among other things, pink Christmas tree earrings and biscuit crumbs.

Normally I’m not a big fan of the telephone, having answered it professionally (and in some instances very unprofessionally. I once slipped and called the doctor who employed me Hon) for forty years, but when the doctor’s office left me a lovely voicemail (see, no phone love here) suggesting I speak to the doctor by telephone instead of trooping down the stairs in the cold to the car and engaging in an updated version of Frogger on the highway to get there, I voted in favor of the phone.

Because I hate cold worse than telecommunication.

So instead of leafing through old magazines in a waiting room, I whiled away my time shopping online for a desk. Instead of complaining about the doctor running behind schedule, I played computer games. Instead of wearing my Leave the House outfit, I donned sweatpants and an old sweater.

And bunny slippers.

The doctor is in. And so am I.

 LET'S GO TO THE DOCTOR - MORE RETIREMENT FUN!

One benefit of retirement is that you have extra time for medical tests. You may believe that there will be extra time for sleeping longer in the mornings or lingering over cheesecake at lunchtime, but this is not true. You have to be up early to get to your medical tests before the doctor has time to fall two hours behind in his schedule, thereby throwing off your afternoon nap plans.

One thing doctors are concerned with is measuring things, such as your blood pressure, which goes up because you have to drive on the highway to get to the doctor’s office, and your weight, which goes up because you reward yourself with doughnuts for taking such good care of your health that you go to the doctor All. The. Time.

Before you retired you probably made many fun plans to travel and to have lunch with your friends. This will not happen because the warranty will expire on your body a week after retirement and you will spend all your time at the doctor learning about replacement parts as if you’re an old Chevy. Also, your friends are at work and get inexplicably cranky if you ask them to go to lunch at ten so you can get home for your nap.

Sleeping is important in retirement because you have to make up for 40 years of waking up at ten minutes until dawn and thinking, “Is it Friday yet?” and pining for retirement because you don’t know yet about the doctor visits and medical tests. The one time you can’t sleep in retirement is when the doctor sends you for a sleep test and your eyes stay wide open for eight hours because you’re in a strange bed, hooked up to 100,000 wires, and are busy wondering what sort of noises they’ll hear when you’re asleep.

Then they tell you to relax.

That’s a good time to take your blood pressure.

HEALTH AND WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT

One of the activities I enjoy most about retirement is taking pills. I never had time to go to the doctor before, but now I see doctors for body parts I didn’t even know I had. They gave me pills and then gave me more pills to cure the ailments caused by the first pills. I saw a commercial for one of my prescriptions on TV. They said it could cause certain side effects such as death, but not to stop taking it without my doctor’s permission. I have a feeling my doctor’s brother-in-law is an undertaker.

Also, I graduated from Physical Therapy this week. When it first started, I didn’t want to go, but then I found out it was really gym class where you don’t have to wear an unflattering outfit or run laps, and your insurance pays for it. If high school had been like this, I would have lettered in track.

My PT instructor gave me a yellow elastic band for resistance training. I wrote “Police Lines Do Not Cross” on it and hung it on the vacuum cleaner.

At Physical Therapy I got to play tennis inside in the air conditioning while standing in front of a chair in case I wanted to sit down. My therapist brought me ice water and chased the ball whenever I missed it.

I’m ready for Wimbledon and she lost twenty-five pounds.

STOMP!

I made my husband miserable today, which was a relief, because he’d gone about his business in relative calm for several days, and I was afraid he would think I wasn’t taking my job as a wife seriously. Nothing says "I Care" like a sticky note telling him to cut the grass before I braid it.

Several times a week I like to remind him of household projects he’s neglected or impending gift-giving occasions he should prepare for. That way he knows I’m showing interest in his personal obligations.

I have a theory that it doesn’t show proper personal attention to receive an orchid bedecked greeting card that has, “In sympathy for the loss of your pet” scratched through with a black marker and “Happy Anniversary, Honey” scribbled in its place. Advance planning can go a long way toward creating a Hallmark moment that doesn’t conclude with projectiles launched by an offended party and an emergency room visit.

It’s also important not to let his schedule get too lax or he’ll wind up in mischief of some sort and before you know it, he’ll start pulling out power tools, and it will take forever to restore order. The last time the electric sander saw the light of day, the cat lost his eyebrows. A responsible man would have told me that the black button meant ON.

This time, however, my job was easy. All I had to do was say, “Honey, why don’t you see the doctor about that toe?”

After years of marriage, I've come to understand that the word "doctor" transforms the male pschye into something resembling a castoff retread. He regarded me with the same loving gaze I’d seen the time he refused to buy a Poodle so I suggested we attempt a home perm on the Labrador and put bows in his ears.

“Why don’t you buy clothes that fit instead of pants that you have to lose five pounds to wear?”

I love the man, but honestly, sometimes he says things that just don’t make sense.

The offending toe was swollen and sore and gave him the charming, easy gait of Quasimodo thumping through the streets of Paris. It seemed that we were hovering on the brink of something serious, such as me having to take a look at it, so I suggested the unthinkable.

“You could go to the doctor tomorrow on your day off.” Call me crazy, but I thought days off were there to take care of these things. In truth, days off were created so you could cut your grass in time to make your neighbor’s lawn look like Don King’s hair by comparison. Then you whiled away your time in the hammock reading last year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

I could see he needed some understanding and encouragement. “There’s no need to be afraid.”

Here’s a clue for newlywed brides. If you want your marriage to last longer than it took to eat the wedding cake, don’t suggest he’s afraid of anything. Especially doctors or other naturally frightening things.

“I’m not afraid,” he said, staggering along beside me. “I just don’t need to go. I’m fine.”

“The last time you were fine it required a course of industrial strength painkillers and a week’s worth of muscle relaxers. I had to do the fireman’s carry whenever you had to go to the bathroom.”

“That was different. That was my back.”

“The only reason I got you to the doctor that time was your muscles spasmed and you couldn’t put up a fight. Son One, the Incredible Hulk, carried you into Urgent Care like you were a statue. You’re just lucky it was too early in the day for the pigeons to be out.”

“Very funny. I’m fine.”

A light breeze came along and he winced at the pressure on his foot. I could see this was going to get ugly if I didn’t pull a clever idea out of the 98% humidified air.

“I guess we won’t need those tickets to STOMP I got for our anniversary.”

“You got tickets to STOMP? They’re always sold out.”

“Yep. A stage full of guys abusing every day items with sticks, all in the name of rhythm. I’ve heard the best part is the finale.”

“I know. They strap trash cans to their feet and don’t even get in trouble with their wives for digging divots out of the linoleum. It’s the best show ever. I guess since you went to all the trouble to get the tickets, I’ll go to the doctor.”

“Good for you. While you’re gone, I’ll go shopping for something to wear.”

He raised one eyebrow. I hate it when he does that. It means he already knows what I’d rather not say.

“Well, I’d have to lose five pounds to wear anything I have now.”

Happy Anniversary, Honey!

Dream Big But Don't Bend Over

I posted a sign above my closet that reads: “Caution: Consult your doctor before any change of clothing.”

These days my favorite aerobic activity is standing up to put on my pants. Seems like the older I get, the faster I do that little hokey pokey dance of trying to stuff my foot into the leg hole while hopping in circles like a flamingo on a hot sidewalk. If both feet accidentally go in the same side, I’ll spend the entire day shuffling around like the third man in a chain gang before I’ll attempt the Herculean task of redirecting the errant leg. It’s just not worth the risk to my health insurance.

My idea of Xtreme Sports is putting on socks. In the old days pantyhose installation was the troublemaker, but the fashion gods took stock of the nation’s legs and decided it was a nifty idea for a nation of people whose lower limbs resemble the untamed face of Everest to forego hosiery. Free of the pantyhose peril among us, I’ve resorted to socks, which are not in any way attached to each other and which require someone with the dexterity of Jack LaLanne to put them on.

Scientific studies of adults over 50 in my house who are opposed to stretching or bending for reasons of health or other forms of neglect, show that people my age can suffer acid indigestion or premature death from this sort of sudden exercise onset. Last Tuesday I tried to put on a sports bra and almost cornrowed my hair. I did manage to perform an emergency facelift. My eyebrows are still missing, but the birthmark previously on my temple is now a butterfly tattoo at the base of my spine.

Not long ago I saw an advertisement for a scarf that could be tied in different ways to make 19 different outfits. Thinking I couldn’t go wrong with a one-piece wardrobe, I dug out the piece of plastic that lets me live life on borrowed dimes and bought one. Before I got it out of the package it worked itself into a sort of fabric Rubik’s cube. I wedged it over my head and squeezed my arms through. These days I have to flex my left shoulder to lift my right leg. I need two assistants and an Eagle Scout with a Swiss Army knife just to walk up the stairs to my front porch. Every time I try to take a step, the back hem shoots up my back like Levelor blinds.

I thought about trying yoga to improve my flexibility. I popped in an exercise video, but by the time I dropped into the downward dog position, I required the assistance of a veterinarian. I found it rather humiliating to wear the satellite dish collar, but it worked wonders to keep me from biting my stitches.

Then yesterday while surmising out how to safely remove a panty girdle without friction burns that took care of unwanted hair better than a series of laser treatments, I thought back to the popular movie, The Bucket List. Suddenly I realized that if I were to name the one thing I wanted to accomplish with my life before that final stroll through the Pearly Gates, it would be to dress myself without the need for a pictorial directory of the human anatomy, an emergency responder team, or the jaws of life on standby.

My half century of life has taught me an important lesson. When you dream, dream big. But don't bend over.

Feed a Fever, Starve a Wallet

According to my experience, the only things children share without being threatened are asparagus, blame for painting the refrigerator, and the chicken pox.

I think my kids plan their sick days at the beginning of the school year according to when major projects and compositions are due or when there is a day I’ll have a schedule that’s tight enough to be shrink wrapped. On awards day, they tally up their doctor visits and the one who has the most sick days gets to hang on the refrigerator door and ask what’s for supper every ten seconds until I get that thumpy vein in my neck and we all go out for pizza.

My kids are so adept at trips to the doctor, the Olympic committee is considering accepting flu-spreading as a winter sport. Their record is six office visits in a week, but that takes conditioning and discipline, so they can’t do it every time. Besides, my two boys aim for less conventional fare than mere strains of bacteria can provide. The Adventure of the Invisible Glass Sliver and the Mistaken X-Ray comes to mind. When that doctor finally fished the dainty dagger of glass out of the swollen, bloody foot (no I can’t make him wear shoes in the house, not for all the Frosted Flakes in Battle Creek), the best part was being able to say “I Told You So” to a man whose car costs more than the yearly junk food bill for my teenagers. Twelve months of Twinkies and Yoo Hoos can add up.

I know a mother with three young daughters who runs a regular route to the doctor every Friday at closing time. She figures if nobody’s sick at that particular moment, strep throat will set in just as the clock strikes five and the doctor loads his briefcase full of communicable diseases into the Lexus sports car for the trip home. This same Mom qualified for the Employee of the Month parking spot at the doctor’s office and is in line for a punch card that will give her a free visit after ten minor emergencies. With her record, she’ll be cashing in a full ticket before grocery day rolls around. She’s wondering if she will qualify for a retirement package once her kids are grown.

And why can’t a family of children all come down with the flu or a nice case of mumps at the same time? Instead, they carefully plan a timeline of late nights and weekends at least two days apart. It’s not that they’re not all sick at the same time. At any given point during the winter months at least 50% of the kids in my carpool (with an incidence rate that escalates to 85% the day before a science project is due) are suffering from various forms of diseases that gives them an intestinal discrepancy, runny nose, and makes them sneeze on the baby.

But they don’t start out that way. By prearranged plan, they space out the onset of their illnesses over two day increments, thereby increasing the trips to the doctor and the chance to see Mommy make the “co-payment” face. I’m convinced the children have a betting pool with all wagered candy bars going to the kid that gets the best noises out of Mommy when they wander into the kitchen, teddy bear in tow, and announce forlornly “My tummy hurts.” They probably get bonus points if Mommy’s face changes color, she makes audible strangled retching sounds, or Daddy has to administer cold packs and CPR.

Now that it’s fall and sinus infections are just around the speed dial, Saturday mornings will inevitably find me with a thermometer in someone’s ear, dialing the doctor’s office during weekend emergency hours while checking furtively for swollen lymph nodes. Faster than you can say “Refinance the mortgage” his neck swells up like a jumbo marshmallow over an open flame, and the lining of his throat boasts enough spots for a dice game.

But I’m not a new face in the fever fighting lineup. I know that with time, tender care, and terrific insurance we’ll all make it through the flu season.

Just in time to start treating spring allergies.

These cold & flu germs first found a home in the Sept./Oct. issue of The Wham Magazine.