By Jim Hagarty
My doctor didn’t come right out and say it but the question hovering over me was, “How long do you want to live?”
A subquestion might have been, “What kind of shape do you want your body to be in while you are living?”
I tried to explain to my new family physician that I am a bit of a rebel when it comes to my health. I rarely do what I am told.
Why is it men seem to find their rebellious streak only when it comes to doctoring? On absolutely everything else, we are usually a bunch of snivelling cowards.
But when it comes to our health, the laws of nature be damned! I will figure this out on my own.
My new doctor went over the list of 13 pills I was taking daily one year ago and was shocked to discover that I had quit taking them. I started to explain why I did that, but even to me, the reasons sounded hollow so I stopped.
It is no coincidence that I haven’t seen my doctor in all that time. I had gone into hiding.
How simple life had become. No pills to remember to take. No acid indigestion after taking them. No swallowing Pepto Bismol like it was soda pop.
And here is the strange thing. I started feeling better as the weeks and months went by. I had been having terrible low blood sugar meltdowns. Those went away. I was sleeping better. Eating better.
Most of all, I was happier.
Then last week my doctor called. Time for a blood test. My sugar reading was a little bit high. Time for an appointment.
So there I was.
First off, three needles were recommended, two for pneumonia and one for shingles. I agreed to them. The first one put me out of pocket $120. The others are free.
“Do you get the flu shot?” he asked, but I don’t know why he did. He must have known the answer.
“No,” I said. “Not for years.”
“You might want to reconsider that.”
The long and short of our 45 minutes together was this.
I need to return to taking all my pills, in fact, start a new one. And there is another new one I might want to consider.
Cut down on my coffee intake. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink. Get more exercise. Get regular blood tests and chart the results on my computer. Buy a home blood-pressure testing kit or go to drug stores regularly and check it.
I left there depressed.
I felt like a lab rat that had escaped his cage for a year but had now been rounded up again. Needles, pills, serums, testing machines coming at me from all directions.
So I have a decision to make.
Do I want to live out my days relying on chemicals and modern technological things to keep me going? Or do I want to be a bad guy and just live?
What complicates the picture is this. It’s fine to be a hero and treat your body like a landfill site, as is said, but the results of your decisions will probably be felt by someone else who will need to push you around in a wheelchair or feed and bathe you because you were so independent.
Pass me my pills, dear.
My grandfather lived to be 84. That’s a pretty good age, it seems to me. He used to feel a little punky so he would go to the doctor in town. The doctor would examine him and send him home with a bottle of pills and strict instructions to follow the guidelines spelled out on the bottle.
My grandpa took his pills religiously. And felt better after every doctor visit.
The pills were candy.
