Around the old folks home, I feel like a king. I have been here longer than most, so I know the ropes. I am the only senior here with a journal, and readers on two continents. Makes one proud. I know how to use a computer, a digital camera, a video camera. I make movies of our senior activities to put on the closed circuit television system.
People call on me to set their clocks, get their television tuners working to buy them stamps, or talking watches from a catalogue. I play the harmonica with the piano player who comes twice a week. They ask me to write letters to the management when things are not working properly. I am somebody, I take care of myself and others.
But when I have to go to the doctor, I am an abject creature who cannot take care of his own body. I have to present myself with all my flaws and weaknesses for him to see, to tsk tsk over, to medicate and study. I cannot sleep the night before I see him. I fear him, though I know he is trying to help me.
"Go to bed early, get a good night's sleep before you see the doctor," counsels my daughter. Fat chance. I will get little sleep tonight. Here I am up again, having lain in bed tossing and turning.
Maybe writing this, and stating my anxiety out loud will help. I will go back to bed...and try.
My ordeal is at Eight AM
ps. worked... slept okay after wrting. Dr. appointment went well. The Dr said he was glad to see me looking so well. The ordeal was not an ordeal.