Fighting Words…..

Another birthday in the books. When you hit 70 (and beyond) birthdays are stark reminders that you are in a race with Father Time, a patient and utterly reliable barometer of our diminishing impact on the world around us. God bless the folks who schlup through life without a care until they hit the big casino and come to terms with the master, aptly named for the many aspects of his reign, especially in his role as the ultimate time keeper. Most of us at my age have made the acquaintance of a number of medical professionals, that is if you are into preventative maintenance, a consideration I have found to be most effective when you want to extend the life of, well, anything. To that end, I just met a new one.

I have 3 younger sisters who at one point in their lives spent time worshipping the sun and in two cases, enjoying a little tobacco as a form of therapy. I never touched the stuff except to puff on a cigar when each of my kids were born. I turned green each time, even though I tried to not inhale. (Unlike Bubba Clinton…but that is another story). I am also a redhead and folks blessed with crimson locks know to avoid the sun, as deep tans are just not in the cards for us, at least without triggering all sorts of dermal push back. Two of my siblings have danced with cancer and two of us are (were) patiently awaiting our turn. We come by it honestly, as our father was body slammed by lung cancer at 44, the kind that kills you very quickly. On a personal level I have supported the sunscreen industry with gusto, slathering on stuff with great SPF ratings at every opportunity. I also fish, and am convinced that a touch of sunscreen on your bait is the kiss of death, for the bait, not the fish. Fish won’t bite when this stuff is on your offering, so I avoided putting it on my hands. That folks, turns out to be a mistake.

It started as a little raised bump on the back of my left hand. This hand is held in full sun when cranking on a reel, thus generously introducing this unprotected skin to old sol. Yesterday, in the middle of our birthday induced shopping spree the phone rang and the dermatologist was to the point, you have cancer (the squamous kind) and we need to schedule with our surgeon to have a little procedure known as MOHS surgery. I equate it to filleting a crappie, gonna get the skin without getting the flesh under it….if we can. This stuff is usually just an inconvenience if you can keep it from jumping the fence. Surgery is next week, in and out……a walk in the park (as I whistle past the graveyard).

Now for the real indignity. I noticed on a recent visit to my PCP that I was deemed “old and frail” in the Medicare coding vernacular. Cancer be damned, that pissed me off. I shot a note to the doctor’s office and suggested they get their bureaucratic asses out of their swivel chairs and follow this old “frail” man around the gym anytime they feel the need to have their young and vibrant asses kicked. I am not the SR of 40 years ago, but I’ll be damned if I’m frail. The first time I was so disrespected, a comely little girl at a McDonalds asked me if I was a senior, years ago. Frail is not in my job description and has taken the front row over the baby cancer on my hand. The next time I’m in there, we’re going to talk. You can bet on it! Old I am, frail, and I can guarantee this, I am not. Those are fighting words if ever there was such a thing. I got their frail…….

Have a great week!

SR