I am starting to believe that there is really no such thing as aging gracefully.
As I pass through my middle forties on my way to the big five 0, I have found that my body has begun to revolt against me. There are pains in my back, in my knees, in my hips, and just about every joint that I have. When I get up in the morning, my body is a virtual cacophony of cracks and snaps as I walk across the floor. My hearing is going bad, there has been a constant ringing for about ten years now, and my eyes can’t seem to make up their mind as to whether I am near-sighted or far-sighted. Then this past weekend, my body got tired of fighting on the front lines and swung around to attack from the rear. I got a hemorrhoid.
You can pretty much set aside any hope of retaining even the slightest bit of dignity when you have to step up to the counter and explain just where the pain is, when the pain just happens to be where the sun don’t shine. It gets even worse when it starts to set in that someone is actually going to have to take a look at what just happens to be ailing you. Worst still when the first person who has to take a look is a young nurse half your age. Now, I would never assume to know what someone may be thinking, but I have a suspicion that the last thing the young lady really wanted to do that night was to take an upclose and personal look at my back side.
There is really no way to ease into the examination. Shorts needed to be dropped, and bending over needed to commence. Then parts were poked and prodded that the nuns told us would make us blind if we touched them. All this only to find out that, yes indeed, I had a giant pain in my tookas. Then there was a lot of talk, using big words that made me squeamish. Words like insert were used in conjunction with some more medical terms, and a prescription was given for something that needed instruction about insertion into the said medical term. Then things got worse as the doctor explained that if the treatment didn’t work, the area might then need to be lanced. Suddenly the word suppository sounded much better.
An attempt was made to go to work this morning, but I only made it a few hours. I hate to say it, but as I have aged, it seems that my threshold for pain has decreased. I can’t stand, I can’t sit, and getting from one point the other is almost unbearable. The mass itself seems to be getting bigger and more painful despite the promise that the little white bullet thing was going to relieve swelling, itching, and discomfort associated with the condition. I made a futile attempt to pick up the blue recycling bins when I got home, but decided that it would be best to send my son out to retrieve them instead. When sitting or standing is not an option, bending over to pick something up was a real bad idea. And trust me, you don’t want to hear about what happened when I sneezed.
So here I am. Lying on my stomach in bed attempting to type to keep my mind off of things. Judging by my choice of topic, I would say I have failed miserably. I have left the kids to their own devices downstairs while I grumble to myself. Molly stops up to see me every now and then. I have simply told her only that dad is not feeling well. I have all the confidence that at 14 Alex is more than capable of making a frozen pizza without burning down the house, and that they have both done their homework. Certainly my kids would never take advantage of poor old dad in his time of discomfort.
Certainly, every parent has had those times when they wanted, or actually uttered a certain phrase to describe their offspring at a time when maybe they were not behaving. Or maybe the words have been used in reference to a spouse or perhaps an ex-spouse when things were not going that well. Although I can’t promise that I will never use the phrase again, I will certainly be more careful when I do. Because if there is anything I have learned over the past two days, I certainly have come to understand the real meaning behind the phrase:
Pain in the Ass.
