Poor, Poor Pitiful Me

I went to see the doctor yesterday, but the hangman wasn't hanging yet.  

"Come back in three weeks."  

But the news was bad enough.  My blood pressure was sky high.  Danger zone.  

"There are at least two possible reasons for that," I told the doc.  "First--I'm here.  Second--I'm in a lot of pain."

"What pain?"

I told her about my neck and the radiating pain into my scapula and shoulder and on down my arm into my hand.  

"Are you taking anything for it?"

I told her I took Aleve and Tylenol.  "Aleve is dangerous," she said.  Then she wrote a prescription for some narcotics.

Then she handed me a bottle.  "Let's try this for your blood pressures.  It seemed to work for another patient I gave it to."

So now I am taking four blood pressure meds.  I am rather worried.  It may be "the apnea," of course, but age and heredity, too.  I have a feeling I should go on a big fast, but I'm not inclined to at present.  

I gave them lots of my blood for testing.  In three weeks, I'll know the verdict.  

I have been to three doctors this week, and now I need a fourth.  I wasn't able to sleep at all last night for the sharp pains in my neck and shoulder.  I could find no position in bed that wasn't excruciating.  Tonight, I'll try the narcotics. 

"You've really fucked up this time, ain't ya boy?"

I think it was getting run over that did it.  Not run over.  I reportedly went flying through the air.  I just realized that happened ten years ago come Thursday.  I had just returned from a fabulous trip to Palm Springs and L.A.  It was Saturday, and the weather was lovely.  Saturday night was not so good.  

I was looking up something just yesterday and came across an article that reported the alarming number of people who die after breaking ribs.  Well, now. . . I was well past that mark--seven broken ribs, flail chest, and a punctured lung just for starters.  The doctors didn't give me very good chances for survival.  Besides the ribs, shit was broken everywhere.  

So, ten years on--I guess I've beaten the odds for awhile.  Now, however, it seems, things are catching up to me.  And, of course, I can't even run.  

I'm going to need to see a bone doc.  They usually have specialties--hips or knees or shoulders or hands--so I'm not sure who will handle all of this.  The guy who cut me open to plate the ribs was a cardiac surgeon, so I am a little baffled now about who to see.  

"What brings you in today?"

"The left side."

"What?"

"Neck, ribs, clavicle, shoulder, scapula. . . ." 

"I'll call a priest."

It's always hit or miss with doctors.  You never know.  

When I was released from the hospital after the accident, I told myself I would be O.K. with not being a hero anymore, that I would simply relish sitting in cafes and restaurants with my girl and having sweet, low conversations.  And it went that way for a minute.  Then it didn't.  Then came retirement, Covid, and my mother, Trump, Biden and Trump.  I have just lived through the worst six and a half years of my life.  I don't remember it, really.  There is nothing worth remembering.  

But, you know. . . I'm sure things will get better.