Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Geezer Lunch at the Club

At 72 Clyde is the youngster in the lunch bunch, where, no matter how it starts the conversation inevitably turns to medical updates.

I mentioned my macular degeneration.

"You should try audio books," Clyde said..  "They're really nifty."  ("Nifty"!?!)

"Can't hear," I said. (I have worn electronic things in my ears for nearly 20 years.)

"I FORGOT," Clyde apologized.

Bruce, who had hobbled to the table on a cane, said they were going to have to redo his latest knee surgery.  Same as with the other one three years ago.  "Old age isn't for sissies," he said.

"Beats the alternative," Clyde said helpfully.  He still plays a little tennis, albeit badly.  Bunt and lob, that sort of crap.

The rest of us simply exchanged the kind of glance that implies a shrug.

"Had to have the pacemaker replaced last week," Garry reported.

"Infection?" someone asked.

"Bad battery," Garry said.

"Technology of those things is getting better by leaps and bounds," Clyde said.  (He doesn't even have a cardiologist yet!)

"Hmmm," Garry said.

John updated us on his plantar fasciitis.  The $400 shoes hadn't helped.  He said he had found a new podiatrist.  "Any progress?" I asked.  "Too soon to tell," he said.  "How's your hand?"

"Decent range of motion," I said, "but the arthritis is worse." John had fasciitis in both feet.  I had it in both hands.

"You were wise to opt for surgery," Garry said.  "Ron had the injection and the contracture just got worse.  Poor guy can't even hold a tennis racquet any more."

All of us had once been tennis players.  One by one the infirmities of age had forced us to quit. I had bought five "bonus years" with a left hip replacement in my late 70s, but now the other hip is causing problems.

"Maybe you guys would like pickle ball," Clyde said.  Pickle ball is the latest fad at the club.  Sort of like geriatric badminton played with some kind of whiffle ball.

"Rather play dominos," Garry said.  I agreed.

We finished lunch quickly because everyone was on some kind of special diet imposed by doctors.

"How about an aperitif?" Clyde suggested. "I'll buy."

The rest of us rolled our eyes.