Another Year's Lease on Life

Caravaggio

I am a louse.  For two years in a row, it seems, I have forgotten the birthday of someone I care for deeply.  I am like that.  I am like Caravaggio's painting of Narcissus.  I have never enjoyed birthdays, especially my own.  Nothing anyone can do will ever live up to my grand expectation of what should happen, so I'd rather be ignored.  That way, I can mope and cry that nobody really loves me.  

Not the way I do, at least.  

Yea, yea, yea. . . . 

But it breaks my heart that I have plumb forgotten, especially since she has been remembering mine.  There is no real way you can make up for that, I think, as I've been told more than once that birthday's are more important to women than is Christmas.  Sounds like a sexist thing, sure, and I was told that by a male chauvinist.  Still, that doesn't mean he was wrong.  He was right about a lot of things even though he turned out to be a crook.  

Brando, I mean.  

I am learning not to judge the book by my cover too late in life.  One dust jacket doesn't fit all.  

I took this bit of information with me to my doctor's appointment yesterday.  I was early, but it didn't matter.  I waited for over an hour.  By the time the doc got to me, I think she was in a hurry.  She walked in with a nurse and a scribe.  I think that is what they were.  She smiled and said, "Your blood work was great."

"Well. . . I've been through a bit since I saw you last."  And I proceeded to sing to her my sad song.

"I'm glad you got that taken off," she said.  

"What was my testosterone level," I asked her.  

"I don't think we tested that."

"Yes, it's on here," said the nurse.  I had requested the test.  The doc took a look.  

"It's normal," she said.  

"What was the number."

She read it off. 

"I'd like to get it up to around 800," I said.  

She winced.  "Why would you want that much testosterone?" she queried.  The nurse giggled.  

"What are you laughing about?" I grinned.  

"What most men want it for," she stumbled. 

"No, no. . . if that was it I'd be asking for Cialis.  I just want to look like the man I used to be so I can use my charms," I said.

"I don't know," said the doc. 

"It's one cc a week of testosterone," I said.  "That's standard.  I've been around this all my life.  Most of the guys at the gym who are over forty are on TRT."

She wasn't impressed.  I didn't think she would be.  My levels are o.k.  I should probably leave it alone.  But when all the other boys are getting pumped. . . .  

I'll leave it alone.  

So I took the good news home with me as a victory for the day.  

"Looks like I might have another year," I told my mother, "if this leg thing turns out alright."

But my mother had a phone call just then, so my victory limp was over and done.  When she got off the pone, she made me a grilled cheese sandwich and some chicken soup.  I opened a small coca-cola.  This is not the way I usually eat, but boy oh boy, it was good.  

"I need to get back to my house where the healthy food is," I said.  "But first, I need to stop a the infectious disease doctor's office and cancel my appointment.  I want to hear what they have to say."

My mother was boo-hooing as I packed up to go home.  "I like having you here," she said.  It was meant to be sweet, but it was also something else, a whole lot of guilting, I think.  It seems unfair, but I understand.  And therein lies the rub.  

As I pulled into the parking lot at the doc's office, I got a call.  It was Tennessee.  He had just gotten back into town and had missed my entire fiasco.  

"Where are you?  I've got something for you."

"I'm at the doc's office," I said.  

"When will you be home.  I'll stop by."

Since I've decided to give up drinking whiskey alone in my home every night, of course his present was a bottle scotch.  The devil works in obvious ways.  

I filled him in on my fun two weeks, and he told me about his.  That's what people do.  He wanted to know if he and his wife could take me to dinner, but I told him I wasn't up for going out yet.  When he left, I thought about the dinner I had turned down and the one I would have instead.  I decided I'd been eating like shit for days now, so I'd have one last shitty dinner.  I went to the store and bought a frozen pizza.  

My mother called.  She said she was lonely.  

"Yea. . . I know what you mean."

What could I say.  People stop by and see her all day long.  They bring her food.  People call her on the phone.  I can go days without hearing from anyone.  But she is closer to the cliff than I, so I understand.  Nobody wants to be alone with "the thing."  I can only tell her that I will be much more alone with it than she is. . . but I know that is no comfort.  

And that is what I had on my mind for the rest of the night.  I watched a little tv and went to bed.  

I will get back to editing my photos for the projected website today.  I may get back to making photographs when I can get around again.  I feel I have another year's lease on life, and I want to make it productive.  

For now, though. . . well. . . there is the music.