Doctorings
I’m just in from playing with Dally in the snow. Pinky was out with us. Someone is doing laundry. Trump and others are in D.C. on TV. I am bles’t as I can be. It’s a beautiful day.
Someone shoveled the few inches of snow that fell last night — very early — and more later. Sunset Street sparkles with frost on every sunbeam. Now I will take my morning pills and thank the Lord for this day he has made, and for the food I’m about to find — which he so wonderfully provides to nourish me. And for the USA and Wyoming being my home.
I’m also thankful that the hard worker is indoors for a short break in her recliner. On top of all her shoveling, she’s doing loads of laundry.
I am also thankful for yummy leftover food from yesterday and the nice stove to heat it up. Mmm. It is so good I may not share with the pup — who is just now nose to nose with her brother cat on the mat right in front of the stove.
Then the phone chooses to ring.
“Don’t kill the messenger,” my wise brain warns my hungry mind — as the frown on my ugly face broadcasts every thought in neon to anyone who might be in sight of me. Thankfully, Gail is here. Her wide eyes and finger to her lips catch me before anything angry pours into the phone and whatever ear may be pressed against it.
Phew, that was close.
The dog and cat look at each other and whisper. I picture a cartoon with “#@*&^” thoughts written above a caricature of me. Humor always helps.
The realization of how awfully old I really am has finally dawned. A few hours every week devoted to combating the side effects of aging upon my mind have done precious little for my body. My spirit musters all defenses possible, but it’s a poor match against time.
“How do you combat aging?” you ask.
“Very simply,” I reply. “I spend time among good friends, enjoying mentally competitive games.”
Yet phone and ear are inundated with names of conditions. More appointments with doctors in Rapid City, and frequent blood draws in Newcastle. Instructions enumerate who makes decisions, in what town — along with deciding how many days between blood draws.
How many days between appointments — once I know to whom I report and at what time? Amazingly, it all somehow condenses into an appointment for me to visit an oncologist at the Rapid City Cancer Center sometime between the fifth and the 12th of March.
Gail — who drives — interjects that she prefers to leave for Rapid at 9 or 10 a.m. and start home no later than 2 or 3 p.m. She’s been driving Black Hills highways most of her life and knows how important visibility is with the wild game likely to be encountered.
I ride shotgun, keeping an eagle eye peeled for movement on a course likely to intersect ours.
At such times I quietly say, “Right side” or “Your side,” sometimes adding “a hundred yards” or “immediately” for further clarity. The rest is up to God.
Speaking of clarity, I’m betting all I’ve just muddled-ly meandered over is as clear as mud to you unfortunate readers.