This morning I called my orthopedist for an appointment. My new knee has suddenly begun to swell, the other knee is about to give out altogether and my right hip is making me limp. I’m crumbling as we speak.

“I’d like to schedule an appointment to address a few issues,” I begin.

“Well exactly what, ONE thing do you want to speak to the doctor about?” the receptionist asks me.

“There are three things,” I tell her, “and they’re all connected. You know just like that song, ‘the thigh bone’s connected to the knee bone, the knee bone’s connected to the shin bone  . . .”

She remains unmoved. Perhaps, she’s too young to remember the song? Nope. She’s following her script.

“You need to pick just ONE thing to see the doctor about,” she huffs, “That’s how we plan how long an appointment should take.”

“Are you kidding me?” I query. “So if I break two toes on my foot, he’ll only look at ONE of them? That makes NO sense.”

“I can only book ONE at a time,” she repeats.  “How about just seeing him concerning the swelling in your new knee,” she says, obviously trying to make my choice easier and get me off the phone.

“Fine,” I say, “Book it.”

I hang up, redial the doctor and get another receptionist.

“I’d like to schedule an appointment for my right hip,” I say. “I’ll be bringing it in all by itself.”  She doesn’t get the joke and books me at a different time on a different day.

Yes, I dial a third time and book a third appointment. I’m stunned to go through this bizarre hoop but what other option do I have?  As I’m placed on hold, it occurs to me that three appointments bring in much more money than one. Back in the day, the family doctor could take out your tonsils, your babies and even act as your therapist. Now they’re so specialized it takes a team of them to cover all of your body parts. Go ahead. Add up all your doctors and you might discover that you have enough to field the offense for a football team.

We don’t just have an opioid crisis in America.   We have a crisis of conscience. When I see my doctor tomorrow, he’s not only going to get a piece of my mind, he’s going to get all three of my body parts as well.  Why?  Because THEY’RE ALL CONNECTED!!!

“Hi! I’m Mr. Ed,” my seatmate says to me as we begin a four-hour flight to Phoenix. “Like the talking horse,” he continues. “Remember that TV show?” “Oh, Yes,” I assure him and I do.

 Now I’m a talker. I was constantly scolded for talking in class and my grandmother even nicknamed me, “chatterbox.” However, I was no match for Mr. Ed, who even at 87, manages to fill every, solitary, single second with a burbling fountain of gushing words. But oh, what stories he has to tell!

 Ed signed up for the army at 17 and fought in the famous Chosin reservoir battle. “We were cut off by over 200,000 Chinese. 120 of us went over but only 18 of us came home. The rest froze to death. I took a hat with earmuffs from a dead Chinese soldier. That’s why I made it through those six months.”

 I learn that Ed is one of 13 children and worked for General Motors for 30 years. He’s had both of his knees replaced twice and loves fishing. His wife has Alzheimer’s and is now in a nursing home. “It’s okay she doesn’t know my name,” he confides, “cuz she still knows I’m her husband.”

 Ed laughs at his own stories and so do I.

 “My buddy’s wife didn’t like football. So he sits her down one day to watch his favorite quarterback, Terry Bradshaw. Bradshaw gets sacked. When they show the instant replay, the guy’s wife screams, “Run, sucker run! They’re gonna get you again!!”

 “My body is like one of those old cars you have to push up a hill to jumpstart. Once it starts you gotta keep it going.”

 “I took one of those Selfie things and boy was I shocked! Those wrinkles must just come in the night cuz I sure don’t remember them growing when I’m awake!”

 Mr. Ed also preaches in prisons. Recently, when he told the men that, “God knows the day you will die,” one of the inmates, Big John, said, “So, God knows when I’m gonna die, huh? Well what if I walk in front of a truck right now?” “Don’t worry,” Mr. Ed assured him, “God knows you’re stupid, too!”

 As we part, he says, “Now remember, Chatterbox, the best thing you can do for yourself is what you do for others.” Carry on Mr. Ed!  

Apparently I’m now at the age where no matter what doctor I go to when, there will always be something wrong. Last week I saw the eye doctor: “You have cataracts on both eyes but the right eye is much worse. They’re slow growing so you don’t have to operate yet.” Then I went for my yearly skin exam: “That’s a pre-cancerous lesion on your arm so I’m going to remove it.”   Out came the hypodermic and a razor blade.

My next stop was the dentist for a routine cleaning. Easy peasy, right?  2 ½ hours later, I left with a very sore mouth. Apparently, there has been a shadow on my x-rays for the last three years, which my previous dentist didn’t catch. A piece of cement from an old crown that had not been removed had led to a gaping pocket and bone loss in my jaw.

 What next? I can only imagine. Now all of this is quite minor compared to friends who’ve had strokes, cancer or ended up as one pal has with a body-wasting disease. However, it’s not fun so I’ve come to a decision: in between doctor visits I’m going to find as much joy as possible. That means surrounding myself with people who enjoy my company; making others laugh when I can and yes, occasionally doing Tarzan calls on the Pickleball court and beating my chest.

 I’m also going to be sure that I take in as much beauty as possible. To that end, I went to Trader Joe’s this morning and didn’t buy a single thing. Instead, I took my camera and snapped everything that looked beautiful to my eyes and I’m sharing it here with you. Enjoy!

Lately, I’ve taken to wearing a lanyard around my neck, which holds my keys and a series of store tags from the places where I usually shop. Since I began this practice I have not lost my keys once! Until today, it has been a lifesaver. However, while checking out of Ace hardware this morning, when the cashier asked for my tag, I held up the ACE one for him to scan. Without looking, he grabbed it—not realizing that it was attached to me—and almost pulled me across the counter. “Whoa there,” I said, “or you’ll have me in your lap.” Poor kid was horrified. The incident set me thinking about the ways we try to protect ourselves but don’t always do so. Some recent cases in the news come to mind:

1. Should I still be taking Omega-3 supplements? New information says this is not always a good idea as it can cause blood thinning and excessive bleeding among other issues.
2. Should I be eating gluten free? New studies show that unless you have certified celiac disease, you might be causing more harm than good. You may even be increasing your risk of heart disease. They’ve also discovered that gluten is a good prebiotic that actually feeds the ‘good’ bacteria in our gut.
3. It’s on ads all over TV, but is Prevagen really a safe drug to take for a sharper mind?   Um, nope. Not according to the science.
4. Should I be slathering myself with conventional sunscreens? Um, not unless I want the chemicals in them going smack into my bloodstream and liver.
5. Are routine dental x-rays really no big deal? They always tell you that the ‘radiation exposure is minimal,’ but do you realize that if you don’t insist on a lead, shield collar for your neck, you can actually fry your thyroid and end up with hypothyroidism or cancer?

So what’s the takeaway? I guess that it’s, still, after more than 2,000 years, just what the Greek poet, Hesiod advised us in 700 BC: “all things in moderation.” Otherwise, the apparently helpful things we think we are doing might ultimately cause more harm than good.  Or, like me, you could end up in a strangers’ lap simply because you didn’t want to lose your keys.

Yesterday I met a charming Millenial who just started working at the DMV!  I was there to get that new ID card we all have to have by 2020. He said that he has been, “in training” and this was his very, first day, “out front with the public.” As I laid out my driver’s license, passport, birth certificate, social security card, bank statement AND electric bill, his supervisor, an officious, older woman, stood straight over his shoulder.

As he scoured through my papers, I made small talk and learned that he still lived at home with his parents and this was his first ‘real’ job. As he picked up the final paper, he paused and looked hard at the form where I had filled out my height, weight and hair color. Then he looked directly at me.

 “Um, It says here that your hair color is brown,” he questioned, looking closely at my scalp.

 “Well, yes,” I replied. “I mean I thought about putting ‘gray’ but it’s always been brown. So, um, what do you think I should put down?”

He started to speak but the woman behind him must have nudged or pinched him because he suddenly clammed up. I wanted to hear him out.

 “Let me rephrase that,” I continued. “If a policeman should pull me over to give me a ticket, not that I would ever speed mind you, would he find my hair to be brown or gray?”

 “Well,” he said, considering his words carefully, “I would say that once your hair was probably more brown than gray but now it’s probably more gray than brown.”

 The woman behind him went red in the face and her eyes actually bulged.

 “Oh, perfect!” I laughed. “Then please cross out ‘brown’ and put ‘gray’ down instead. I so appreciate you clarifying this for me.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” he said quite pleased with himself. “I’m glad I could be of help.”

 God bless the Millennials. Don’t you just love their spunk? Sure they’re moving back home and rotating jobs faster than you can snap your fingers but so what? They shoot straight from the hip. For someone my age who worries about breaking one, it’s refreshing. As it happens, I gave birth to two Millennials. My oldest just turned me on to this song. Thought I’d share it with you: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDDP2lX5ZHA