I am not a doctor -- though I have been known to play one in the courtroom.
That, of course was in a time long ago in Oregon. I now restrict my medical practice to me.
Writers have a tendency to ignore the aphorism omnes similitudines claudicante -- all analogies limp. But here comes one right now hobbling down the lane.
Our bodies are like cars. At least, mine is. As bodies age, we tend to think of them as eternally being what they were when they were new, and we are shocked -- shocked, I say -- when the suspension does not ease the bumps of life as it once did.
I am now in my eighth decade of life. And that means plenty of maintenance is required. Or needs to be ignored.
When I last was in Oregon, I received some bad, but hardly startling, news from an optometrist. My right eye was in the early stages of developing a cataract that would eventually need surgery -- and the blood vessels in my left eye were enflamed as the result of the elevated blood pressure I suffer whenever I visit the high desert.
Because it was more a precautionary warning than a matter of alarm, I tossed it onto the deferred maintenance list. After all, if I needed surgery, I could get some of the best care possible here in Mexico.
Until Sunday a week ago. While walking to church, I noticed what looked like a long strand of hair over the corner of my left eye. Even though I knew it was not an errant lock (I have not worn my hair that long in decades), I still brushed my hand to move it out of my range of sight. Not surprisingly, it was still there. And unless I had magically developed Mother Eyes, no hair on the front of my head was going to get in the way of my eyes.
A quick research on-line indicated the symptom could be the onset of macular degeneration or a detached retina. Both possibilities included the same warning: seek medical help immediately.
So, I did. On the next morning. But my doctor's waiting room was full, so I decided to use my time more productively by adding some more walking to my life.
And that is where everything stayed until Tuesday this week when I had dinner with my pastor and his wife (Al and Sue) at Papa Gallo's. I had noticed that whatever was wrong with my left eye was more apparent whenever I was in direct sunlight.
The conversation turned to matters medical, and I told them about my latest concern. When telling tales, I tend to use my hands for emphasis. Recreating my futile swipe to free what I thought was a non-existent tress, I felt something odd. A long hair. Not from the top of my head, but from the left corner of my eyebrow.
I did not have one of those exotic eye diseases that would require medical intervention. It was not even a strand of hair from my receding hairline. It was merely another one of those afflictions that seem to come to old men -- Andy Rooney eyebrows.
I have noticed that during the past year or two that my eyebrows have become the croplands for what can only be described as mutant eyebrow hairs. My eyebrows were the only bit of hair on my head that did not need any maintenance. They were always as orderly and uniform as the Queen's Life Guard.
Now, there are always several on the playing field that take off in any direction. The only thing they have in common is their horse-hair consistency and their absurd length. If my hairline recedes any further, I have the option of using my eyebrows as a comb-over.
When I discovered the genesis of my faulty left eye, I simply plucked out the offending hair. Al and Sue joined me in laughing at the absurdity of it all. I am just glad that I left the waiting room on Monday.
I was going to write that it would have been embarrassing if my doctor told me I was concerned about something that was just another Old Man problem. But I tend not to get embarrassed about anything these days. Another Old Man problem.
I suppose there are better roles for me on the stage of life than playing a doctor. Being an Andy Rooney impersonator may suit me far better.
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