Good News

Well, kinda, sorta.

My medicine cabinet is full of over-the-counter pain medicines. Some are “Rapid Release” and some are “Extended Release.” Every brand is represented. If I ever wake up and nothing hurts, I will know I died and the afterlife I had hoped for will perpetually look like my bedroom.

Clint Eastwood was asked how he did so much work at his age. His response was, “Just don’t let that old man in.” But, that old man keeps knocking with arthritic knuckles and creaky knees. It’s hard to keep him outside.

I am not really afraid of death. I am afraid of dying.

Death seems to be rather nice when you read the accounts of people who’ve reported near-death experiences. Old friends found again; grandparents welcoming you. Good stuff.

Dying, however, only holds out extended suffering. I met an older fellow the other night whose right heel had to be amputated because it had become gangrenous. That put him in a wheelchair for three years which caused him to develop nerve damage to his spine. He was wearing a TENS unit that night and was overjoyed to now be able to walk again, using his spiffy, new, red, carbon fiber walker. He sprung for the off-road wheels, too; a feature that truly reflected his eternal optimism.

I love those commercials where some ersatz estate planner asks an elder couple to express their vision for their retirement, and the couple answers, “We always wanted to own a vinyard!” Yeah. Well, what that advisor never says is, “Let’s first put aside a small fortune to pay for your teeth. You do want teeth, don’t you?”

Some day, while you are at a light, waiting for it to turn greener, use your tongue to count the teeth you now have. Then, while the idiot behind you is leaning on his horn, multiply that number by $4,000. That’s what a new post-and-crown will set you back for each tooth you never really flossed all that well. Four Grand each sucker! And, you wanted to own a vinyard? Ha.

Dentists want to own as many toys as their medical brethren do: a boat, an RV, a Corvette. Come on! Do your part.

Creaky, achey, cranky. That’s me. Ugly, too. Only my grandkids can look at me and think, somehow, that I am cool (or, whatever the current word for “cool” might be). They’re my source of optimism for tomorrow’s dawn, laden with tomorrow’s newest set of pains.