Ah, fall, can you please get here a little quicker? I hate hot weather. I hate sunburns. I hate sweating. I hate (well, maybe not hate, but I strongly dislike) summer. When I was a kid the only reason I liked summer just a little bit was the fact that school was out for a couple of months and we could swim at least once a week when we could get a ride on the bus to the state park. The rest of the time was spent playing outside for a while then sitting in front of the “swamp cooler,” letting little bits of water “spit” on us. No wonder our mother got a job at the local grocery store. At least it had air conditioning and a walk-in freezer.
Yes, I much prefer fall. Now that we're retired and don't have to leave the house until we want to I can say that I love cold nights and cool mornings. I can turn on my fireplace with a punch of a button, turn on the television, snuggle up in my recliner, drink hot chocolate, and watch the newscasters sound the alarm on the latest disaster. If they don't have one, you can be assured they'll make one up.
But I should get to the point of the column, shouldn't I?
Fall is a time to rejoice in the nicer weather, football and the start of the holiday seasons. Unfortunately, it's also time for me to schedule our annual physicals. (Insert sad face here.) I don't know why I got into the habit of setting up everything, medically speaking, this time of year but once I did, the insurance companies locked us in. I'm sure it had a lot to do with my ability to put absolutely everything off until the very last minute so now we're stuck. It's not a very pleasant way to start my favorite season. The beginning of summer would have been more apropos. What better way to spend a hot, miserable day than in a freezing cold examination room, sans adequate covering?
So I've been sitting around for a few days trying to get in the mood to make the call because I know what is going to happen. The only thing our doctor likes more than writing prescriptions is sending us for bloodwork. We'll stop by his office to pick up the orders and off we'll go. By the time the blood-sucking techs at the "Blood Sucking Institute" get done with us, I always feel like I could be folded into an envelope and slipped under the door. I can never keep track of how many vials of blood are taken, but it makes me wonder if Dracula isn't in another room waiting for an infusion.
The appointment comes next. The doctor likes to stare at the results and scare the bejesus out of me by muttering "hmmm" to himself. I don't like "hmmm." I want to hear, "Everything's perfect as usual. See you next year." When he frowns like that all I can think of is "I've got to get out of here before he can think of another test to send us for– like an MRI.”
For reasons only our insurance company knows, we've started receiving numerous pages of surveys to fill out before our appointments. Call me crotchety but I take umbrage to these so-called surveys since they seem to imply that as soon as we've reached a certain age, we're no longer in charge of any of our faculties.
A sample of a few of the questions:
Q. Can you use the telephone on your own? Can you look up numbers and dial by yourself?
A. Seriously? Telephones have been around my whole life. When I forget how to use one, then you can lock me up.
Q. Do you plan, prepare, and serve adequate meals by yourself?
A. Define adequate.
Q. Do you maintain the house alone?
A. Not if I can help it.
Q. Do you do the laundry completely?
A. Well, it sure ain't the laundry fairy.
Q. Can you take your medication by yourself?
A. No, David hides it in a piece of cheese.
Q. Do you feel safe at home?
A. As opposed to what?
Q. Have you fallen in the last three months? (They ask me this EVERY WEEK!)
A. No.
Q. Do you smoke? Have you ever smoked? (Again they ask me this EVERY WEEK!)
A. NO.
I think they need to be more concerned about their own inability to remember my answers they've noted in my files on their computer.
A word to the wise–don't mess with us oldsters. We're old, we don't like it, and we get real cranky with people try to make us look incompetent.