as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
RaisingDad
by Jim Duchene
Fuzzy Consciousness
“easing my way into geezerhood”
I’ve reached the age where I've gone from “old enough to know better” to “too old to care.”
Fortunately for me, my wife cares, so she makes sure I go to my various doctor appointments where I get poked, prodded, and lectured. Unfortunately for her, I’m like my mother, who didn’t care to go to the doctor or take medication, and yet somehow lived to a ripe old age.
When I explained this aversion to my buddy Maloney, he reminded me of a friend of ours who recently died from prostate cancer. Like my mother, our friend also didn’t like going to the doctor. By the time he went, his cancer was Stage 4 and already spreading to his other organs.
“If they caught it earlier,” Maloney told me, “he’d be alive today.”
"See?" my wife said, also reminding me of something. Mainly, to make sure nobody ever tells me anything in front of her again.
I thought about my old friend, now dead. We were close. That is, until he borrowed money from me. Now I’ll never get it back.
A few months ago my doctor told me I had to watch my cholesterol because it was high. He wanted to put me on medication to lower it. I didn't care for the sound of that. In the first place, isn’t it easier for me to watch my cholesterol when I have more of it? In the second place, the last time I was put on that kind of medication the left side of my face went numb. I quit taking it. I’m not vain, but when I go into a haunted house on Halloween I don’t want to come out with a job application.
My doctor said he would prescribe a different type of medication, one that wasn’t so strong, but I wasn’t planning on taking that one either. That's my medical advice, kids. If you don't like the diagnosis, ignore it. In the end, there was a lesson to be learned, and what I learned was, "You can run, but you can't hide." At least, not from my wife.
"You're taking the medication," she told me.
"But it could make me gassy," I said, remembering one of the side effects.
“Even more than usual?”
That's the thing about getting older. Your body changes in ways you don't expect. For example, where did these bags under my eyes come from? They’re so big I could carry fifty dollars worth of groceries in them. Still, it's not the medication that bothers me. It's the side effects. Do they always have to be bad? Can't they ever be good?
For example, the cholesterol medication I’m now taking against my will can cause problems with my liver. If I'm not mistaken, I think I need my liver. At the very least, I'd like to keep it. If it does cause problems, it's recommended I immediately see a doctor.
A doctor.
Who will prescribe even more medication.
Worst case scenario... the unthinkable. You know, death. Although I don't know why it's called "the unthinkable." It's very thinkable. In fact, my father thinks about it all the time.
The idea of dying never used to bother me. Then I had kids. Who wants to cause their children that kind of pain? Not me. You see, I have two soft spots. One is for my kids, and the other I carry around my midsection
Stomach pain is another side effect. As well as loss of appetite. That makes sense. Who wants to eat when you feel like you've been punched in the gut? Muscle pain, headaches, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea.... Yeah, sounds like I'm going to be the life of every party I go to.
Anecdotally, I can tell you that it’s been harder for me to fall asleep at night. Also, I dream more. That hasn’t happened to me since the odd adventures I used to experience at night when I first got my Covid-Xi vaccinations (“Butterfly Dreams” May 2021). Additionally, I feel as if I’m not as mentally sharp as I was pre-medication. A sort of fuzzy consciousness.
Aches and pains? How many of those are due to my medication and how many are because I’m slowly easing my way into geezerhood? Now that I think about it, as I go through the list of side effects, they look more and more like symptoms of aging. Fear or nervousness. Feeling sad or empty. Irritability. Loss of interest or pleasure. Maybe it’s the medication. Or maybe I’m turning into my father.
My wife suggested talking to someone.
“A psychiatrist?” I gulped.
“Not necessarily a psychiatrist," she insisted.
I don't need a psychiatrist.
My father’s been psychoanalyzing me my whole life.
On the way back from my last doctor's appointment, my beautiful wife wanted me to stop and buy her some Bobbi Brown face cream. She tells me it keeps her looking young. Maybe she should tell the ladies behind the counter.
Anyway, I came back empty-handed.
I had forgotten the face cream.
Getting old has its advantages.
If only I could remember what they were.
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In a hundred years this won’t matter.
You know, like it does now.
