"You're in good shape," said my doctor on Monday. "For a man of your age!" Oh, why did she have to add that second sentence? I was in to talk about my sore elbow. (Tendonitis). And my painful knee. (Gonarthritis). And my prostate. (Age!)
"Nice to know I'm in good company," I've often said to Lesley, referencing Charles the HRH. "But how the hell did he stop himself peeing during the coronation?" It's a question that intrigues me, seeing as I can't listen to one whole side of an LP without pausing for a bloody piddle these days. And all my friends know not to include me in any conversations, because I won't be sitting with them long enough to contribute. (Joke!) It was becoming a bit of an embarrassment though, until the doctor told me that, actually, I did have a real medical problem and not just a ludicrously teeny bladder. Oh, what a relief (so to speak) and so tablets it is and let's see if we can't shift the problem once and for all ..
A pal of mine is still recovering from prostate cancer and, now that he's on the right side of it, I know he'll allow me the pleasure I feel knowing I've not got the same problem. An enlarged prostate is an inconvenience, not a life-threatener. Apparently, we men don't speak about these things, so it's interesting to note that, by doing just that (try stopping me!) I've already encouraged another pal with similar symptoms to consider he may have a prostate problem ..
Old age is a privilege denied to many. That was written on one of those faux-wooden plaques behind the bar of a pub I used to frequent with my Dad. I was eighteen then, and I'm going to be 64 this August. Time is starting to make itself felt, and there ain't a thing I can do about it. Today though, a lady we know is being cremated. Heart attack. Sixty-four. Old age, denied. Certainly puts a dribbly willy in its place, don't ya think?
No comments:
Post a Comment