The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Old people like myself, I’ve noticed, love to talk about their ailments and maladies. My old man has made a pastime of medical recounting, nearly a body of literature regarding doctor visits and various pathologies. One night at a dinner party with old friends, ‘old’ being the operative word here, the kids of our friends finally interrupted the incredibly fascinating chronicle of knee injuries, dental woes, eyesight troubles expounded upon by their parents and begged to return to the internecine political wars we’d agreed to put aside and just enjoy our meal. Anything is better than listening to reports of operations, tooth extractions and gastro-intestinal triages, I guess.

I’ve been fairly lucky over the years, not much to report to my geriatric friends or you either. Until yesterday when, are you interested?, I took a whiz and about passed out with the pain. Felt like fire in the tunnel, since you asked. Urine like lava. Kinda scared me. Scared me even more when the next few trips to the bathroom were repeat performances. Usually I avoid doctors, clinics, hospitals, most of the medical apparatus, but damn, this seemed like something that couldn’t be ignored and hope it would just go away with clean living and a little time to heal.

Okay, I thought as I drove the 20 miles to the clinic in Stanwoodopolis, old age has finally come knocking. A couple hours later, one painful pee into the plastic cup and lab results that showed blood in the urine, my doc wrote a script for antibiotics, theorizing a possible infection in the kidney or bladder, if it doesn’t go away, start looking at cancer or prostate problems, chemo, radiation, probably update the will, make plans for cremation, say goodbye to friends and family.

Funny how sitting in a waiting room a few hours with people who exhibit all the malfunctions the human body is capable of can give you, oh, a slightly skewed tilt toward pessimism.

I left the clinic and drove to the pharmacy, stoic on my pity potty, telling myself I’d lived a good life, now it was time to pay the piper. While I waited for my antibiotics, I decided to take one more dreaded piss before the drive home and the pain was barely noticeable. Was I getting inured to pain? Toughened up? Accepting of my fate? After a long wait, I got my pills, took one with my own home remedy, a beer and hit the long road home, now a pitiable metaphor.

Got home still feeling a little sorry for myself, kissed the mizzus thinking, you know, for better or worse on those wedding vows, sat down and helped her clean crab for a late dinner. Last supper, maybe. Woe is me. But miracle of miracles, next bathroom expedition was normal. Pain was gone. Pissing was fun once again. Life was good. I would live! I would live to pee again! Pain free!

I assume, based on my vast medical experience as a graveyard weekend orderly, I passed a kidney stone. My lab tests came back this morning, all within acceptable parameters. I canceled my antibiotic regimen, told the funeral home to put the cremation on hold and said to hell with writing a will. Hopefully, for you and me both, this is the last medical story you’ll get from me for a very long while. Count yourself lucky. Me too!

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