Life At 93

Staying hydrated and dry simultaneously is a major challenge.

Passing gas and bowel movements, often simultaneous, sounds like a loud explosion. Always unexpected and gives new meaning to the old army expression of 'blow it out your ass'. (Thank you Jack Tunnell.)

Diagnosed with lung cancer at 93 has reduced my life expectancy from immortality to God knows how long. Shooting for 8 years of remission. Though living until I'm 104, sounds indescribable. Good or bad, suit yourself. A lot depends on the size of your bank account.

In spite of being a 'recovering alcoholic' for 43 years, I still miss being 'whiskey smart'...Don't miss feeling awful (aka feeling like shit) after an evening of sincere drinking.

Two 'walkers', both distasteful. One seems to incorporate strength training. I check for laughers, my so called biceps, after using that walker. Never any change. Instant change a pipe dream.

Getting old was fun. Breathing hard after sex was good. Breathing hard after walking 40 steps or having a bowl movement, no fun at all. Heart rate out the window. But at least I still have one.

Getting dressed and undressed a stretching workout; 25 minutes, coming and going. Haven't put my warmups on backwards lately.

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Up, Up and Away

'Old age gives a whole new meaning to 'blow it out your ass.'... Jack Tunnell


Getting dressed in the morning becomes a 15 minute stretching exercise including a need to check the exercise sweat's pockets to be sure that I didn't put the sons of bitches on backwards.

Taking a diuretic causes me to wonder if I'm pissing my life away out of my dripping faucet. All the while wondering if I will ever get a good night's sleep again. Yeah a 'wet dream' would have a different meaning at almost 93.

I do fantasize about resurrecting my dead dick. No sexual disruption here since there ain't no sex.

Easy breathing and pushing 93 ain't easy to come by. Throw in replacing an aorta heart valve has made easy breathing a real challenge.

Thanks to my fabulous daughter in-law, Lisa, my recent round trip to, in and from the VA Pulmonary section was uneventful except when I went to get out of Lisa's car the wrong way. Exiting the car became my 'workout of the day'.

The blood test went well the second time around. The first time the needle wouldn't stay in. Not an unfamiliar sensation for me. The number of blood tests I've had should qualify me to being a pin cushion.

The folks in pulmonary at the VA were great. Ramon did the testing while Carrie, who really should dislike me since I hung up on her previously! She however, was extraordinarily nice to me, while generating a ton of Jewish guilt in me.

As part of the test Ramon asked if I could walk 5 minutes, not mandatory, to which I replied that if I could do that I wouldn't be there for the testing.

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92+

Kvetch, groan, but be happy.

Shrinking feet or growing feet? Either one works for me. Shoes easy to put on.

Gas or bowel movement? Bad risk to reward ratio if I choose gas route! Can get messy.

I use the stool!

First call at 1:00 AM! Second call at 2:30-3:00AM. The real moment of truth comes at around 5:00AM. Should I give up the fight and just piss in bed? Haven't chosen pissing in bed, yet.

Hydrating all day, with a weak bladder, results in a lot of pissing, but not all at once.

Being forced to use a 'walker' ain't too swift. But being bed bound or dead are poor fucking alternatives.

Wham, bam, slam!!! On my back again Mam!

A so called 'Care Giver' neglected to lock the wheels of my wheelchair which slid out from under me when I tried to sit down. I flew threw the air with the greatest of ease except that I wasn't on a fucking flying trapeze.

Roses are red, violets are blue, always walking up the down stairway when you're 92.

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Constipation, Poker, Mud

My all time prevention and cure for constipation is Chow Mein.

No stool softeners or pills stuck up my ass. Been there done that. Chow Mein works the best. Looking for a restaurant to sponsor and pay me for my Constipation Cure. Best to use restaurants with home delivery service. Chow Mein sometimes works in a hurry.

More Jews died in Kansas City from heart attacks going for an inside straight than from any other reason....The winners tell stories, while the losers scream, 'Deal, deal, deal already'....I was winning and winning, until I lost...Poker mantras from the 1940's and 50's.

The over two months aboard a hospital ship coming back to the states (Wilmington, Ca) were spent shooting craps, playing a bastard form of bridge and real poker. Nights often produced wonderful wet dreams.Wrote my folks almost every day. Letters censored (4 letter words, okay) and mailed from the various port stops.

Betty Sheets has described Seoul, Korea as a 'huge, modern city'. In 1945/46 it was a huge, not so modern, fucking mud hole when it rained in particular. You were literally up to your ass in mud. Damned little to recommend Seoul for an abrasive Bronx Jew, like me who never heard of Korea until he was there as a Sargent in the Signal Corps, which like my sex life, is gone. Long gone.

D Day barely mentioned in the press this year except for advertising D Day retail sales. Korean War and its veterans are now invisible. The National WWII Museum, in New Orleans, should be a model for our other wars. Thank you Peter Foss and others.

Driving at 16 was wonderful. Driving at 92 is dangerous for other drivers on the road. Hello Lyft.

Riddle me this:When did an operation become a procedure? And why? Older people look at me like a bull with a bastard calf when I use procedure to describe my aorta valve replacement.

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A Drunk And A Fool

When you turn 90 years of age, you revert back to childhood aging and every 6 months becomes as meaningful as bowel movements. As does keeping your feet elevated to get the fluid (aka 'pee') distributed through your body instead of sinking to your ankles which then become the size of soft balls.

So, I'm 92 1/2, with a new, 5 month old, aorta heart valve and slowly recovering with 'slowly' being the operative word. In order to avoid even borderline hypochondria, Dr. Google is out of my life. Dr. Patricia Nguyen a cardiologist of the VA/Stanford is terrific. Beats the hell out of Dr. Google.

Constipation is gone. The cure is in too much Chicken Chow Mein or Chicken Pot Pie. Either one will give you pleasure while chowing down, later you might decide that constipation is more better.

5 different prescription pills is my emotional limit. If you're Jewish, as I am, every kvetch becomes life threatening. Going into a hospital invites a UTI.

An ambulance ride ain't like spending a day at the beach. Two, resulting from being a careless outdoor cycler were my fate.

And along comes Memorial Day to remind me of the fallen and gives me reasons to be grateful for still being alive, having lived through two marriages, Okinawa plus a ton of travel and barrels of booze.

Al Brodie was the father of John who, in turn, was a star quarterback at Stanford and S.F. 49ers. Al died, I was told, of cirrhosis of the liver around 60 years old.

Al lived in Atherton, would walk  (He knew driving was a no,no.) to Beltramo's (a bar, liquor store on the edge of Atherton) at around 11 and drink hard booze til noon. Then walk to Fabbro's a drinker's bar and restaurant and have warm red wine with roast beef and spaghetti. Then back to Beltramo's for some serious drinking. This was a daily weekday routine. I would join him for the late afternoon, early evening stint.

His other son, Bill, was 86'd out of almost every local bar. He'd get plastered and look to get into fist fights. I think he also died of cirrhosis.

Me? God takes care of drunks and fools and since I qualify on both scores, I am still alive at 92 1/2.

71 Years Ago, Today

So the old man and his wife are in the doctor's office and the doctor tells the old man that he, the doctor, needs a sample of the old man's stool and a urine sample as well.

The old man, whose hearing was not too swift, turned to his wife and asked,'What did he say?' The old lady says, 'The doctor said we need to bring him a pair of your underpants.'

Old age brings almost a new life style with it. Having an aortic valve replacement virtually guarantees it. My stamina still ain't worth a hoot in hell. Or anywhere else.

'Maloney, I think I'm hit'.

'Ah Feshbach, you're full of shit.'

'But Jerry, I felt a huge thump hitting my left leg and there ain't no flying rocks on this fucking mud hole.' Okinawa, April 12, 1945. - 71 years ago.

Jerry Maloney then screamed at me to look, which I did. Saw a hole in my left leg that, at the time, looked to be the size of a silver dollar. Then I went nuts. Started screaming, not out of pain but out of pure indignation of having a bullet go through my left leg while in a fox hole, that I helped dig, in a fucking place I'd never heard of until we arrived: Okinawa.

That was the bad news. The good news was that if the bullet had been higher and to the right I would have been castrated and not enjoyed a drunken menage a trois, years later, in Paris with two hookers from Mozambique.

It had to be fun but I was so drunk that I remember zero. Except the hookers guaranteed me a fun experience and why would two hookers lie to me?

The other memorable happening on April 12,1945 was Roosevelt died that day. He made the obits. I got to write my Mom and Pop and tell them that I could still make babies and how lucky I was.

But then every one knows who their Mother is but only God knows who their Father is.

71 years ago, to the day.

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