"Go to the doctor!"
I raised my voice and tried to herd Terry
out the door. The front door wouldn't
shut because the teenagers had slammed it,
hung on it, locked each other out and
tried to push their way back in.
He decided fixing the door was more important than
his appointment. I physically blocked his
return into the house for tools and he left.
A few weeks ago he started having to use the restroom
once an hour and decided he must have bladder
cancer. He read all his medical books,
diagnosed himself and talked to the doctor
on his mail route. Then he came back with an
armload of cures from Seattle Super Supplements,
which luckily for him, is right down our road.
He started taking ground Oregon grape roots,
Super D and several other concoctions.
When he asked my opinion I told him the truth.
He is getting old and going to die someday.
As a lifelong Bladder Day Saint, don't
I wish I only had to use the restroom
once an hour. No sympathy there.
Five years ago he was convinced he had
stomach cancer because he had a tummy ache.
After dozens of doctor's exams
and awful procedures, they deemed
him healthy as a horse.
Told him not to drink four cups of coffee
on an empty stomach every morning.
Then I started getting lots of sub jobs
and cash to help with the bills and he
really felt good. My diagnosis for that?
I think he just had Brokeitis.
Update: Terry came back and the doctor
told him, "This is normal for your age."
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