Well, that's been several months gone by...considering I'd never had anything like this happen to me before you'd think that I could remember not only the month and the day, but even the exact time. But it's been a spell up the road since then. Suffice to say that I have not given further consideration to a living will. I don't think about it. More importantly, I don't WANT to think about it. I live in denial of a lot of things, but that one is pretty close to the front of the line. Besides, what have I got to bequeath anyway? My massive collection of 3,000 CDs? This crappy Vaio I'm typing this on, with the DVD Drive shot and the headphone input on the fritz? Maybe all the books I've picked up at garage sales and library book fairs? The lot would fill a large closet, and set me back probably a total of ten bucks over the course of the last 30 years. Living will? I don't need no stinking living will. What I'll need is someone who is LIVING and is WILLING to throw it all out the curb.
But not really. I'm sure my son will enjoy the CDs. I know I will regret, and regret even now, that my legacy won't benefit him financially as he deserves. Not to mention my wife, who is entitled to a sum of money roughly equivalent to the national deficit for all she's put up with and all she's done for me. The Salvation Army will appreciate the return of many books sold for a quarter. Pure recycling and 100% profit for the bell ringers.
Still, 48...this ain't the 17th century...human life spans are considerably longer than they were even 50 years ago. Surely that's got to play into my situation? Vitamin enriched cereals, fluoride in the tap water, the ability to book time in the emergency room is as simple as going to the hospital website and clicking a few buttons. The comforts of home, central heating and air, the marvels of electricity and health advice dispensed by doctors whose show airs immediately after Oprah's. Everything seems to be going in my favor, right? Then why do I feel like I'm 10 years older than the man in the mirror?
The weight of experience. That's it.
No, that's not it. Everyone has their own personal &%#* they have to deal with. I'm no exception to that rule. It just seems like most folks hold up better than I have. I don't think that makes me a weak man. I've just been dealt a crappy hand that lowers my tolerance for the beatings that time dishes out. This particular crappy hand is called bipolar disorder and I'd just as soon not talk about it. Too many misconceptions floating around out there. It's like every time you hear about some wacky homicidal maniac emptying a gun on innocent bystanders, saving up that last round for his own noggin, he/she is said to "suffer from bipolar disorder". Which, I guess, is as good an excuse as any, but I'm not about to play Grim Reaper in the Shawnee Mall. I would just as soon not be subjected to the stigma...and anyone who says that our society has progressed enough to where people with mental health issues are treated with the same respect and dignity as well adjusted individuals is only fooling themselves. This is not my paranoia talking, it's just reality. "He must be bipolar" is the 21st century version of "He must be crazy". I'm not rallying for change here. Frankly, I don't see change coming anytime soon. People are people. Some things make them uncomfortable. I feel the same way about incestuous lesbians on the Jerry Springer show. But I'm no killer.
I digress. The original topic was how old I often feel. And it's not that I'm wanting to lay it all on bipolar disorder, but it most assuredly has worn me out. Maybe it's my efforts to keep myself pulled together that has made me tired. Not sure I can blame it for neglecting my health, but I guarantee that if you gave me a couple of hours I could make a good case for it.
You want to know how old I feel? I find myself enjoying the local "oldies" station increasingly more since the playlist progressed into the decade of the seventies. I'm liking songs I actually hated back then just because they remind of how crappy a lot of radio was at the time. I turn on the Sirius XM "70s on 7" channel, lay back and pretend I'm still a teenager listening to the radio in my room, head covered under sheets hoping my dad won't catch me awake after bedtime. No matter that my motto at the time was "Disco Sucks"...these days I have a developed appreciation and fluid knowledge of disco. I'll turn the radio down low when it's bedtime - can barely hear the music, but I recognize it instantly and the comfort it brings will help me fall asleep...with the help of Ambien, of course, but still, it's not as if the pill dissolves into the blood stream instantly. I've got to keep my wandering mind occupied until it comes to the end of the road and knocks me out. What I REALLY like is when they play a song I can just barely remember, a tune that maybe was a minor hit and only received minimum airplay in it's day. I may have only heard it once in 1975, but by God I'll recognize it in 2010. Hey, what do you know, my memory still has a little life left.
Unfortunately all that great (and not-so-great) music has to be processed through some significantly nerve damaged eardrums and the constant static, ringing and white noise associated with tinitus. I was a damned fool to think that volume was the desired result in the music I've played the last quarter century (live and on record/8-Track/cassette/CD/mp3 files). I'd warn the young 'uns, but I was a young 'un once and I know they won't listen or care: loudness is addictive. I fear that I will not be able to tolerate the total absence of silence for who knows how much longer. I cannot ignore it, but I do have a method I use that sometimes helps: I imagine that I'm listening to an 8-Track tape, with all the hiss and the music on the other tracks bleeding through. It didn't bother me all that much when I was a kid, so if I can find a way to put my mind in the same place I do alright. Then again, I wasn't listening to classical music at the time. I somehow doubt I could have tolerated the Adagio from Mahler's 5th Symphony through the tinny speakers of my Lear deck.
I won't bother complaining about the other 4 senses and the manner in which each has disintegrated into the performance ability they currently display. I could rant about the 2 years spent looking through a pair of eyeglasses that weren't the proper prescription, but I suppose I'd have to share too much responsibility for not realizing, after a few months, that it wasn't just a case of "getting used to them". I don't know how much damage was done. I've got a prescription now that I think are done right. But you just don't know. There is, of course, still the matter of "getting used to them", so who knows how much better they will work once that's accomplished. Maybe my eyes have adjusted to the point where they are as good as I'm gonna get. If such is the case I suppose I'll have no choice but to get used to them. It won't be easy, but at least I can see halfway decently already with them.
Here's the deal, though, and this is what keeps me feelin' like a spring chicken: I don't need Viagra. Never had to call my physician after 4 hours...never had to ask my doctor if I was healthy enough for sexual activity (I don't think I'd want to know the answer to that one)...To me, ED stands for "Extremely Delicious" and is used in reference to the prime rib at Chili's. I don't mean to insult anyone who requires treatment for impotency, notr do I mean to suggest that such impotency is always apparent in the elderly. I'm only trying to prove the more important point, that I am not an impotent man. Now you know.
When my boy says the hair on my head is now a 50/50 split between brown and gray, it does not hurt my feelings. At least I'm not bald, right? Then he points out that I am balding on the back top of my head. No big deal. I just politely remind him that "balding" does not mean "bald", and until it does there's nothing for me to be concerned with. When, while dining out, he complains about having to wait for me to finish a meal, seeing as how he took his last bite 30 minutes ago, I just tell him what my old man told me: "Chew slower and you'll enjoy it more". I don't chew slower deliberately. I chew slower because I want to make some good memories about what it's like to chew. It won't be too much longer...
"Age ain't nuthin' but a number", right? I guess that's real easy to say when you're 25. Yet, in the Grand Scheme of Things, it is true enough. They also say "You aren't getting older, you're just getting better", and I have a pretty good idea that's not typical. At least not on this side of the fence. If that ER doc says I'm "reasonably healthy" and "still a young man", who am I to dismiss him? I'll get through and get to it, with a little adapting and suspension of disbelief. To be honest I am kind of ready to revisit the past some and not worry so much about "the next big thing". That will be for my son to find. Time has come for me to rest in what I've found. One can only hope that it will be sufficient. I've searched hard enough. Time to dig out the treasure chest and see what we can find.
