About fifteen years ago, not far from here, my head felt as if an artesian well were about to burst my skull. "High blood pressure!", the doctor said. "Take these!"
Then it was high cholesterol. "Take those!", the doctor said.
A few years later, by then in Minneapolis, while on my almost-everyday walk, early in the morning, around Lake Nokomis, I broke a bone in my foot. At least, that was my first diagnosis. I could not bear to put any weight on my foot. "Gout!", my new doctor said. "It comes from a long commitment to a dissipated life." He explained what uric acid crystals were, and what they did, and said, "Take these pills!" He advised that they might destroy my liver, or kidneys, or something, "but, oh, well!". "How old are you, anyway?", he seemed to be asking.
I have come to terms with it. I am a chemical factory, a somewhat erratic chemical factory, and I needed inspection, regulation, and adjustment. It has worked pretty well, although just last week I discovered that I am going to need a knee operation. Something was stabbing me in the knee joint. At least, that was my first diagnosis. But then I wondered, "Is it just uric acid crystals, again?" Since my regular maintenance inspection is still a few weeks off, I self-diagnosed--and what could possibly go wrong with that?--and found the left-over gout pills. It seems to be working.
But the point of this foray into this enchanting tale is not to demonstrate that a man who self-diagnoses has an incompetent doctor, and a fool for a patient, nor even to plead for sympathy, but to admit how much something as simple as an inability to walk normally, or to tie one's shoes without getting dizzy, affects almost everything. Small, or perhaps not-so-small, out-of-whack conditions turn one into someone older and decrepit almost overnight. That becomes lucidly evident not only when the limping starts, but also when the condition comes under control. It is such a pleasure to wake up and realize, almost like a shock, that I feel almost normal again. "Normal", here come with the admission that I am an octogenarian. To use the analogy I began with, it is to say that the chemical factory was built a long time ago, but that is an expectation and an acceptable fact, of a different order than discovering that a couple of the pumps and filters are failing. I don't mind the creaking and the wheezing.
Then it was high cholesterol. "Take those!", the doctor said.
A few years later, by then in Minneapolis, while on my almost-everyday walk, early in the morning, around Lake Nokomis, I broke a bone in my foot. At least, that was my first diagnosis. I could not bear to put any weight on my foot. "Gout!", my new doctor said. "It comes from a long commitment to a dissipated life." He explained what uric acid crystals were, and what they did, and said, "Take these pills!" He advised that they might destroy my liver, or kidneys, or something, "but, oh, well!". "How old are you, anyway?", he seemed to be asking.
I have come to terms with it. I am a chemical factory, a somewhat erratic chemical factory, and I needed inspection, regulation, and adjustment. It has worked pretty well, although just last week I discovered that I am going to need a knee operation. Something was stabbing me in the knee joint. At least, that was my first diagnosis. But then I wondered, "Is it just uric acid crystals, again?" Since my regular maintenance inspection is still a few weeks off, I self-diagnosed--and what could possibly go wrong with that?--and found the left-over gout pills. It seems to be working.
But the point of this foray into this enchanting tale is not to demonstrate that a man who self-diagnoses has an incompetent doctor, and a fool for a patient, nor even to plead for sympathy, but to admit how much something as simple as an inability to walk normally, or to tie one's shoes without getting dizzy, affects almost everything. Small, or perhaps not-so-small, out-of-whack conditions turn one into someone older and decrepit almost overnight. That becomes lucidly evident not only when the limping starts, but also when the condition comes under control. It is such a pleasure to wake up and realize, almost like a shock, that I feel almost normal again. "Normal", here come with the admission that I am an octogenarian. To use the analogy I began with, it is to say that the chemical factory was built a long time ago, but that is an expectation and an acceptable fact, of a different order than discovering that a couple of the pumps and filters are failing. I don't mind the creaking and the wheezing.
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