Scare

I’m in our kitchen quietly helping to prepare din-din, and there’s my wife on the Castro-Convertible in our living-room wrapped in a blanket.
“Uh-ohhhh........” I think to myself. Memories of the old cancer-jones last year. Late-night sickness and calls for the ambulance.
“What’s happening here?” I ask.
“Just a little sick to my stomach, and cold.”
I should mention here that Linda is taking part in a shingles study.
Shingles vaccine or placebo, and report what happens. She was a good candidate because of immunity lowered by chemo.
We’re both getting older.
I’m sure my so-called “prostrate” is enlarged. I was told so years ago by an actual urologist; not just recently by some noisy self-proclaimed SME more interested in badmouthing everything I do or say because I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to say his recollection of where we got off Interstate-80 was WRONG. (And it was WRONG!)
I gave that urologist the third degree about that years ago, and he said one-to-three times per night was average for someone my age, and nothing to worry about.
We did a “prostrate” biopsy a few months ago, and no evidence of cancer. The biopsy was suggested by my urologist, not the almighty Bluster-King, who should stick to his field of expertise, which is Porta-Johns.
I occasionally use johns if they are around, but not every convenience-store between Williamsport and Altoony.
All it takes is a little preplanning.
If future availability of johns is limited, ya don’t guzzle 24 ounces of ‘Dew.
Nine hours with Phil Faudi doing our railfan jaunt at the mighty Curve.
One widdle (my part; three times for him).
“Doncha want a sody?” he’d ask.
“Nope! Whatever goes in, must come out,” I’d say.
I also am weaker. Getting up requires specific moves to counter poor balance and weakened thigh strength.
But at least I ain’t liftin’ my leg by hand, to get it over my motorbike seat.
“The Old Lady is falling apart,” my wife told our dog the other day.
I don’t know exactly what this means, but I worry about it. —She still seems pretty spry to me.
I don’t like the idea of living alone, although it could be done. I hafta rely on her to do my speaking. My speaking is compromised by my stroke; so, for example, my attempt to speak to union-prez Joe Carey about healthcare insurance was a fruitless mess.
At the Alumni-dinner I collared Carey and told him: “Here. Speak to the one that can talk.”
Years ago a family at Immanual Baptist Church had a disaster. The guy’s wife became a vegetable; and he had to tend to her every move.
This hasn’t happened so far, and probably won’t — not if she’s anything like her mother and aunt.
But I worry about it.
We’re not young any more.

My wife of 41 years is “Linda.” Like me she’s retired, but she works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office. She had lymphatic cancer. It was treatable — she survived. —She was treated with chemo-therapy.

RE: “We’re both getting older......” —We both turn 65 this year; my wife today (January 2, 2009), me February 5.

“Prostrate” is how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “prostate” is spelled. I.e. the prostate-gland.

“Some noisy self-proclaimed SME” (Subject-Matter-Expert) is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston (“the almighty Bluster-King”), the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say.

RE: “To say his recollection of where we got off Interstate-80 was WRONG.......” —Years ago my brother and I rode motorcycle to Horseshoe Curve (see below), using my route I’ve used hundreds of times. He noisily disagrees, and claims we used another exit from Interstate-80. And he was incensed I challenged him.

RE: “Every convenience-store between Williamsport and Altoony......” —My brother consumed a 24-ounce bottle of Mountain-Dew (“‘Dew”) soda in Williamsport, PA, during our motorcycle-trip to Horseshoe Curve, and had to hit every convenience-store between Williamsport and Altoony (Altoona) to empty it. I use this to portray his blustering about my bathroom frequency.

RE: “Which is Porta-Johns......” —My brother claims he’s an expert in Porta-Johns; that in college he majored in Porta-Johns.

“Phil Faudi” is a railfan, like me, who conducts tours in the Horseshoe Curve area. (Horseshoe Curve [the “mighty Curve”], west of Altoona, Pennsylvania, is by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. [I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.]) —I went on a Faudi railtour last August.

RE: “Whatever goes in, must come out..........” —Is what I say about liquid consumption — that consumed liquid ends up being a bathroom break.

RE: “I ain’t liftin’ my leg by hand........ —My brother can no longer throw his leg over his motorbike. I still can. He has to lift it by hand. (He’s 13 years younger than me.)

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s three-plus, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

“The Old Lady” is what my wife calls herself.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I belonged to our bus-union: Local 282 (the Rochester local) of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union. 282’s president was “Joe Carey” (as in “carry”).

“Alumni” are retirees of Local 282. You have to join.

“Immanual Baptist Church” in Wilmington, DE, was our family’s church when I was a teenager, but I didn’t actually join, prompting weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth from my tub-thumping born-again Christian parents.

Linda’s mother will soon turn 93; her aunt died awhile ago at 98.