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Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details. The full time job of growing old by J. G. Fabiano "Growing old ain't for sissies" is one of my favorite quotes by actress Bette Davis. For the first five decades of my life I had little concern about my age or medical condition. I believed it foolish to worry about something I had little control over. I rarely went to a doctor because I figured if I ain't broke, don't try to fix me. But, now I am halfway through my fifth decade I am beginning to understand where age is taking me. I have now become part of the world of doctors. These doctors are not only medical. They include dentists, physical therapists, specialists and others who I don't have a clue as to what they do. The parade started when my wife reminded me it was time to get a full physical because of my age. Like most wives, she told me she just wanted to make sure we had enough life insurance on me. I have an English doctor who is very businesslike. I prefer this because, if I was interested in pleasant conversation, I would visit my mother and father in New Hampshire. He asked many questions about my lifestyle, to which I lied, and then he sent his nurse in to take some basic measurements like height, weight, and blood pressure. I didn't mind this because I was pretty sure it wasn't going to hurt and I figured my diet of the past eight months had put my weight well within range of where it was supposed to be. To my delight my blood pressure was good and, after she measured my height, the nurse told me I wasn't shrinking. Then she recorded my weight and, to my dismay, told me I was a bit overweight. How could that be? I asked and she told me that a man of 5-foot, 10-inches was supposed to weigh about 170 lbs. I told her that was about what I ate every day. The nurse then told me to disrobe; something I do not like doing in a small white room with a window the size of a movie screen and a shade that refused to close all the way. I know this because I tried to close it without success. As I waited for the doctor I read every chart and diagram there was on his walls and, over the next hour or so, became pretty familiar with the human vascular system, skeleton and brain. I was thinking about ordering in pizza when the doctor finally came back into the room and continued his inquisition about my life style and I continued to lie. He then started to pick and probe at my body like somebody who might be interested in a good cut of meat and told me everything was pretty good. Looking down at the mudslide of my body I hoped my doctor was not losing his eyesight. He then told me he had to check my prostate, something that would not qualify as the highlight of my year. I have never really known what a prostate does or exactly where it is in the nether regions of my body but, after his investigation, I knew exactly where it was and hoped that, after a day or two, his fingerprints might start to fade. He then told me he would rate my prostate as a number one. I had no idea what that meant because a number one could mean really good or really bad. Seeing the terror on my face my doctor told me all was well and for a man of my age my prostate was ok. Since I had already experienced the adventure of a colonoscopy all that remained was for some blood work I was to complete within the next few days. I asked if I could go down to the lab at the hospital and get it done right away because; if I was going to destroy an entire day it might as well be what was left of this one. He told me I couldn't do this because I had to fast for at least eight hours. I would have to take the blood test the next morning. I guess I could give up one late night snack if I had to. The next morning I was off bright and early to the hospital lab. It opened at five in the morning, which is a good thing because nothing can keep me from breakfast, which is my favorite meal of the day. I gave the receptionist my order and waited in a room surrounded by people mostly my age waiting, presumably, for the same kinds of tests. At least there were some decent magazines to read but I had barely settled into the shocking drama of Brad and Jennifer's lost love child when my name was called. For the first time in my life I didn't have to wait even though I desperately wanted to know how Brad and Jennifer were going to cope. The nurse looked about 12 years old and I wondered if she was really qualified to go sticking sharp instruments into me and drawing my blood. She sat me in a chair that resembled something you would find in a state penitentiary that allowed the death sentence and I immediately told her I was terrified of needles. This was another lie because I'm not terrified of needles in particular; I'm terrified of anything that might inflict pain. She told me not to worry because she had just taken a course about how to suck the blood out of a person's arm. I hoped she was kidding. To my utter delight she did a marvelous job and after a few moments of unconsciousness I thanked her for her expertise and ran out of the lab, thinking about breakfast. The next day my doctor called and talked to me about the results of my tests. Everything looked fine, he said, though my bad cholesterol was high and my good cholesterol was low. My mind went into high gear thinking that bad cholesterol was what would kill me, especially after the breakfast I'd had following the blood tests, and I had no clue as to what good cholesterol was. But, I didn't ask the doctor any questions because the idea that everything looked fine was good enough for me. I decided to root for the good cholesterol. For the next few weeks I was destined to visit the dentist, physical therapist and others whom I have no idea what they do, except they were involved in some area of maintaining my slowly collapsing body. I was probed, put under electrocution and told that everything looked generally okay. I now find myself talking expertly about most medical procedures at parties and spend the rest of my free time battling with my HMO, which refused to believe that anybody who is not on their death bed could possibly need that many tests. To them, of course, the death of a patient is not a bad thing. It is true that growing old ain't for sissies but, gee, does it have to be so time consuming? THE END
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