The Rolling Stones were wrong. It’s not a drag getting old. It is a drag getting old and being sick. It’s not a drag getting old when you’re Mick Jagger and you spend your days selling your songs to companies for money you’ll never have time to spend before your hourglass runs empty of sand. Perhaps, for Mick, it’s a drag getting old and being a sell-out. Probably not.
So, last night, in the hospital, I thought, just thought for a moment, that I should peel myself off the sheeted rubber mattress and drive to the ER. I hit 9.5 on the pain scale, with sun face and lower back pain and a general feeling that I might not make it through the night. That is never a pleasant thought, especially when you’re already in a hospital.
Would the nurse enter the room later in the night to discover my exploded remains covering the newly painted walls? I hope they have more Behr Sand Cream and Cape Cod Millionaire Blue paint sitting around.
After the doctors disappear when the sun goes, it’s keeping you alive time. Despite me catching on fire last night, did I see a doctor? Luckily, I had a great nurse.
This is a hard disease and there are a lot of moving pieces.
Today, my creatinine was higher and the doctor said he would lower the Tobra dose. Was the dose changed when it showed up? Of course not. Sometimes, I feel like it is best not to be proactive and to just succumb to medical system and it’s slowness and possible mistakes. But I can’t give up control – yet. That scares me more than death.