My maternal grandmother, Dorothy, warned us early and often:
”Don’t get old.”
She died at age 83, which seems like an alarmingly short life when seen from my perch here at 55.
Grandma went slowly and, I imagine painfully, dying from gangrene in her leg. Diabetes. She made the decision not to amputate the affected limb, which meant certain death from the infection.
I’d have amputated the shit out of that leg, but this all happened 20 years ago. It was a different world.
Me, I want to go out as Hunter S. Thompson described: “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke thoroughly used up, totally worn out and loudly proclaiming, ‘Wow! What a ride!’”
Considering I’m not supposed to be here according to my colorectal cancer surgeon, living to 83 would be one hell of a victory.
Cancer treatment, chemotherapy especially, has accelerated some aspects of aging.
For example, my hearing aids will be here Saturday.
I was diagnosed with hearing loss last summer, when my primary care doctor made a referral for a routine screening.
My hearing loss is likely from nerve damage caused by the platinum-based drug, Oxaliplatin, part of the chemotherapy cocktail used to treat my cancer.
Cancer research is just now beginning to catch up to the long-term effects of treatment, in part because more and more of us are living beyond the five-year life expectancy that is a routine part of conversations about cancer.
I didn’t expect I’d still be here 12 years after diagnosis, and here I am.
With bum ears.
Similarly, my optometrist checks for nerve damage and glaucoma during every annual vision screening.
I write and speak for a living. Losing my vision and my hearing would be ironic af. But I would soldier on.
Have my own Annie Sullivan teaches Helen Keller to say, “Wa-wa,” moment or some such.
So the hearing aids are coming.
I waited to order them because I wasn’t sure I believed the test was accurate. I’m sure I’m not alone in this.
It wasn’t until March when, during back-to-back trips to Tucson and Washington, D.C., I realized how often I asked people to repeat themselves.
And not just in crowds.
I kept asking Ryan to “say that again” when we talked while rooming together in D.C. I annoyed myself with that question.
So, after doing some research and attempting to see if my mother-in-law’s unused hearing aids would help (they didn’t, as she has tiny ears compared to my giant head saucers), I found some that look like small ear buds.
I’ll be putting my hearing aids to the test during the American Society of Clinical Oncology annual meeting in Chicago, where I’ll be representing Man Up to Cancer with my dudes Trevor Maxwell, Joe Bullock and Don Helgeson.
I’ll be putting my body to the test, too.
We’ll be doing a lot of walking around McCormick Place, the nation’s largest conference center. We’ll also be walking to and from various downtown hotels for a number of meetings and face-to-face opportunities for relationship building.
It’s going to be a great time, and will push me physically.
I’ve been sedentary for the last eight weeks recovering from surgery to repair the massive rotator cuff repair in my right shoulder.
When we fall, as I did during the aftermath of January’s blizzard in Knoxville,we don’t bounce like we used to.
That’s another sign of aging, but I digress.
I’ve gained weight because I like to eat crappy food when I’m not moving.
My name is Michael and I’m a foodaholic.
So it’s time to turn the page.
The weight I can lose, and I can get my activity level back up. It might take some time, but I know I can get back on track.
I know it will help me live longer and, despite grandma’s admonition, get old.
So I can burn into my urn with my hearing aids, glasses and, God willing, a bionic rectum (medical science will develop one someday, I just know it).
On second thought, they probably take off all the metal bits before they light the fire.
Oh well. It’s still one hell of a ride!
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