Old Ned Goes to the Doctor

Old Ned goes to the Doctor

I don’t know if it is just my age but I don’t seem to handle things the same way I did a few years ago. We are still in Seattle until Sunday when we head south again. I put off having knee surgery several times this spring, awaiting the imminent death of my sister with advanced, stage 4 cancer. By now, I can barely walk.

At our last visit early this week, she looked healthier than I did. I told her I had to go south for the knee thing and that she would just have to wait until I got back to die. She said she was going to hang around until after my birthday in November. I suggested that she hang around until Christmas and then promptly fell over my cane. She laughed at the sight and suggested that I try to hold out to my birthday myself. I asked if I could have one of her happy pills. She took a swing at me with my cane.

Yesterday, Carol had to drive me down into the Seattle city center to see a doctor at the hospital. I lay awake half the night, worrying about traffic, since they were closing all the west bound lanes of the I-90 bridge [main route into the city] for repairs for 2 weeks and cars would only have the HOV lanes. Close to 80,000 cars would have to jockey for space in an area that could only handle less than half that. The TV news folks forecast a commuting nightmare.

Therefore, I convinced my wife that we had to leave at 11:00 AM for the usual 45 minute drive to the hospital for a 1:45 PM appointment. As you may guess, my ability to guess at traffic patterns is exceeded only by my ability to pick lotto numbers. Needless to say, my wife was less than thrilled. We already had a little episode of her failure to understanding my communication skills earlier that morning.

I took a phone call for her while she was showering and when I yelled in and gave her the message, it didn’t go well. I said, “Honey, Gyner College is calling and your Pabst Beer Test was good. Since when are you doing beer tasting tests?” A few minutes later, she marched out of the bathroom in a towel and handed me my hearing aids and said either wear them or die.

Well, our anticipated 2 hour drive to Seattle took less than 40 minutes and we were two hours early. I thought I was sure to catch some flack over that, but she was all smiles and said, “Great, Ned. Let’s go to the hospital cafeteria and have lunch.” You know you are getting old when eating at a hospital cafeteria is a treat. Actually, the food at this one is better than some.

My wife actually had a good laugh over it. She said, “You know you are over the hill when you get excited about eating at a hospital cafeteria.” I told her that I didn’t know how I got over the hill without ever getting to the top.

I grabbed an empty booth while she headed for the line. I always felt that a good table was better than knowing what she would order for me. This table even had a newspaper with an un-worked crossword puzzle. This was going to be a good day at the doctor’s office.

We split a sandwich and a slice of lemon meringue pie. I love desserts during times when I am stressed. It’s more than just comfort food. Actually, desserts is stressed spelled backwards. A sure sign of the goodness of a swell piece of pie. I think these words are subtle derivatives of the word, stretched, as in pie belly.

We left the hospital just at the start of the commute time, but again, we breezed through in record time. I hate it when that happens and my wife makes less than subtle comments about my imaginary friend, Ned, the worry wart.

Well, we finally made it home and I settled down in my easy chair to watch the early news and all the ads that are so concerned about many my sex life. At my age, I seem to be more interested in naps. What kind of people sit naked in adjoining bathtubs in the back yard, anyway. Now they are pushing the envelope with obnoxious ads for special super-savings deals for cremation services.

I figure that my kids can figure out what to do with me once I am gone. It’s a small thing compared to what I spent getting them through schools and married and into houses. I don’t really care if they miss the discount special on Channel 5.

My father had me dump his ashes in his favorite fishing hole. I might suggest the same thing with mine, except they would need to dump my ashes down stream, at the next hole.

My dad always got a bit nasty if he thought I was crowding his fishing spots. Which I usually did, since he always knew where the fish were.

Old Ned