Far, Far Better Than A Colonoscopy!

My father was not much of an advice giver, and for many years I was grateful for that trait of his.  One thing he said did stick with me - as you get older, make sure your physicians, lawyers, financial advisors, and such are younger than you are, in fact, much younger than you are.  That way, when you probably need them most, they won't have retired.

To a great extent, I have taken that advice, and it has worked out pretty well.  With one exception.

My internist.  His parents and mine were friends, and we've known each other for - well, a very long time - and when I returned to the Twin Cities in the late 1970s, he became my physician.  And that relationship has been an excellent one in every respect.

Except one.   I haven't much enjoyed my three adventures with him in matters colonoscopic.  It's not the procedure; it's the preparation.  Once that's over, and the happy juice starts flowing at the beginning of the long trip up and back, it's just a question of time.  Not much discomfort, some amusing conversation, and then you toddle home and collapse for the rest of the day - or nowadays - for that day as well as the next.

In early June, I survived the preparation for what well may have been my last  colonoscopy, and all things considered, the procedure went well, and the report turned out to be  excellent.


At the end of the first procedure, I came out of the fog, sat up and looked at all the medical equipment surrounding me and said to Nurse Jennifer, "This place looks like a scene from a James Bond film."  She asked me which one, and apparently I replied "The Riddle of the Sphincter."  I don't remember it very clearly, but others apparently did.


Five years after that, I knew I had to come up with some sort of similar line in case Jennifer was on duty for my next procedure.  She was, so I said I had kind of a silly question to ask her; that turned out to be, "You know, Jennifer, that powder in that gallon size plastic jug was really hard to get down...should I have mixed that with something?  [Yeah, well it was more successful than you might have guessed....]


This year I approached the event with the usual reluctance, but knowing that my doctor was cutting back on his practice and eliminating colonoscopies, etc., from his repertoire, I wrote him a letter of appreciation and made sure to include an observation about my thanks for  his always approaching his task with rectitude.


Maybe he appreciated it.....

Facebook, et alia...Bah! Humbug!

After dipping my big toe very tentatively into the worlds of facebook, linkedin, twitter, and the like, I have decided to make a U-turn and head in the other direction.

No doubt that those in mid-career find use in these online experiences, and no doubt that teen-agers relish their 2700 messages a month as a proxy measure of their popularity, but persons of my age cohort ought to have different and more productive priorities.

Frankly, I am surprised when I am invited, cajoled, emailed, contacted, to acknowledge electronically that someone over 70 - like me - wants me to "friend" them.  We should be doing volunteer work, weeding the garden, reading a book, canning peaches and not fretting about how many online "friends" we may have accumulated purposely or accidentally.

We're already friends, and thus far we seem to have managed to contact each other regularly or irregularly as circumstances require through more traditional means from telephone to the very occasional written note.

I have enough trouble with all the damn telephone solicitations which arrive daily from just after 9 am to just before 9 pm...so much so that sometimes I forward my phones to a completely fictional Mary Margaret McLain, an older Scottish woman, and - miracle of miracles - she takes virtually no messages, except from old friends who know that underneath that old lady's voice is nothing more than me.

It is not that I wish to be a hermit...just that I wish to have some sense of control over what's left of my life.  So you might find me on Facebook or LinkedIn, but even I won't be paying attention to me.

Thank heaven.

Not Your Normal Trip in a London Taxi

Some travelers I know like to prefer to keep their personalities under some sort of mask, almost as though they believe that they don't have to engage the unfamiliar world swirling around them.

Instead, they remain impassive, playing the role of judge and jury without saying a word.  Travel can be anxiety producing, especially if you don't speak the language, don't know the rules, don't understand the cuisine,  much less the map of the public transportation system.

Or…or you can prepare yourself, and by that I mean be interested enough to do a little advance reading, develop a curiosity  about some aspects of the place you're going to visit, and decide to  take advantage of opportunities to engage locals -whether you're lost or would like a recommendation for a nearby restaurant or just sitting next to a stranger on a bus.

Years ago, I used to hide behind a mask, but now that I'm in my anecdotage, that approach no longer seems to be satisfying,  so I initiate conversations, try to help other strangers if asked, and  over time, I've found that nearly every interaction teaches me something…sometimes about the place I'm in and sometimes about me.

In London recently, I had a surprising experience, and I thought one worth sharing.

After the usual hectic preparations, Karen and I flew through the night to London.  Our first task on arriving at Victoria Station was to deliver a load of batons to a customer, after which we wanted to visit an old friend who had been taken to hospital.  Normally we would take the Underground, but we had too much luggage, so we opted for a taxi to the hospital.  Complicating matters, later in the day we had to take a train to Cambridge, about an hour north of London where we had booked accommodation.

Now taking a taxi in London is not inexpensive, but my late mother had a rule to the effect that sometimes it's just smarter to spend the money.  On the way to visit our friend,  I chatted with our round-faced and very cheery driver about when he learned "the knowledge" (the training all so-called black cab drivers must take to be licensed), the impact of the impending Olympic Games on the city of London in general and on his business in particular…just the usual conversation one sometimes is lucky to have with a person navigating the streets of London.

Enroute, it occurred to us that a hospital might not be the place to try to leave six pieces of luggage while we visited our friend, so I asked the driver what it would cost for him to wait half an hour.  A few seconds later,  he told us that because it would take him twenty minutes to get back into town to get another fare, he would be willing to turn off the meter for thirty minutes, let us leave our luggage in the taxi, and pick us up after the visit.  We agreed immediately and the driver and I exchanged and tested cell phone numbers, so we could ring him when we were ready.

We had a very nice visit with our friend John and his wife, and when I rang the driver, he came straightaway, picked us up, and took us to the train station.  We paid for six minutes of waiting time beyond the half-hour we had been "given," and while the final tab was substantial, I paid up, added a generous tip, and silently thanked my mother for her sensible advice many years ago.

One of our London friends later wondered why we would leave our luggage in such a vulnerable situation.  We never thought of it that way….we thought of it as a  very kind act by one human to other humans, not unlike the help we got with our bags at Victoria earlier that day when several young people made our lives a bit easier with their helping hands.

They were paying it forward, and later in the trip we were able to be helpful to others.  Nothing like a trip to remind you that we're all padding in the same canoe, and helping each other is always a good  - and often easy - thing to do.