Survival

 I just received word from my second oldest friend (we go back around 56-57 years) that my oldest friend (~60 years) is doing better in in care, and is being made comfortable with the terminal illness she has stood up to for longer than anyone expected - particularly the medicos, and particularly because she elected to forgo the usual round of crap that accompanies acute intervention. My mother had the same ailment and opted for the intervention - she lasted 10 years, a feat that my friend may have already surpassed. My second oldest friend - himself an MD, among other more sterling qualities - is lamenting the fact that he now has to deal with cardiologists (whom he doesn't like, much) to deal with an arrhythmia that he is convinced will kill him sooner than later.

I confess here that I am somewhat a fan of modern medicine, because, unlike my old pal, I've not so much seen how it's practiced as I have had it practiced on me. The sausage is always tastier when you don't have to see how it's made. I started with Type II diabetes and an arrhythmia of my own, leading to the prescription of various blood glucose meds and, eventually, a pacemaker. More recently, I had open heart surgery to replace two valves. Along the way I picked up a couple of lens to replace the ones that had cataracts, and a new right knee. 

I imagine that if you don't know me, you'd guess that I'm totally an invalid at this point. Au contraire. I play one or another racket sport two or three times a week, I shop, I cook, I travel, I take out the recycle, I clean the pool. I hate cleaning the pool. Anyhow, I'm the fucking million dollar man (thank you, Medicare) and the only part that's obvious are some scars and the thing I share with everyone else my age: we're all pretty damned old.