Yesterday, I had a video conference with my nurse
at the VA. I gave her my vitals—blood pressure, pulse
rate and temperature I had taken hours before. Your
blood pressure is a bit lower, otherwise everything is
normal for you and okay.
Normal for me, what exactly does that mean, I thought
to myself? With my physical maladies, my clinical
depressive psychological state, I still appear to be okay.
I haven’t been out of my apartment in more than two
and a half years, does that appear to be okay? At seventy
five, I’ve aged into my third trimester. And I suppose
the fact that I’m still breathing and can communicate
reasonably indicates that medically and socially I qualify
as okay.
Yes, my appetite is okay. I get to sleep five or six hour
a night. Right now, seated, my pain level is about a two
on the scale of one to ten. Prune juice helps with my
frequent constipation, and I manage to barely make it
to the bathroom when I’ve got to go. I’m continent,
I’m okay.
My goal in life these days is to manage by myself and
to avoid regular outside assistance or being sent to a
nursing home. Medically speaking that qualifies me as
being okay. Fabulous, grand and great are states of being
I passed through years ago. Today, I’m satisfied and okay
with okay.
Now I face the prospects of piss poor and oblivious.
Who knows with the onset of advancing age, those
may come to overtake me in the next few days.
Grateful for what I’ve still got, I suppose.
Talk with you again in three to six months. Yes, I’ll
call you if there’s any change, I told my nurse. Have a
better than average okay day.
-30-
Chris Hanch 7-2-2022
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