Category: Health

My Dribbling Years

Being closer to the finish line than the start, I’m regularly pricked and poked, and not in a good way – blood tests for diabetes and high cholesterol, liver and kidney function, and checks on my far-from-showroom-new prostate. And let’s not go there about stabbing a turd for bowel cancer, a procedure that leaves no one’s dignity intact.

And I’ve now reached a new milestone. I’ve just turned 65. So, it’s official. I’m an old fart who’s ‘past it’ but can’t remember what it was. In years gone by, this would have meant that I’d get my state pension, but no more. I’ve got another 18 months to wait for that pauper’s ransom.

On the plus side, some youngsters now call me ‘sir’ and I get to sit in the special seats on public transport. Whoopy do. My delight knows no bounds.

And I get an extra layer of healthcare aimed at the grey herd – jabs for flu, shingles and pneumococcal (whatever that is) and screening for abdominal aortic aneurysm (any idea? Me neither).

These checks, supplemented by a daily diet of pills and potions, are meant to keep me alive and kicking beyond my biblical three score years and ten. No wonder us old bones are a drain. It wouldn’t surprise me if those same youngsters who offer me a seat on the bus would rather throw me under it.

But despite the aches and the pains, the turkey neck, the well-ploughed wrinkles, the expanding bald patch and waistline, the greying short and curlies, the slowly fading faculties, the struggle to tie a shoe lace and the all-too-tedious 4am sleepy stagger to the loo, I’m embracing my dribbling years. Because living here and now, I know how lucky I am.

Room With a View

When we first waded ashore to the fabled isle of Ithaca, we stumbled upon a tumbledown wreck of a house, perched by the waterside and overlooking a pine-dressed Frikes Bay. Sad, unloved and barely standing, a wonky For Sale sign hung precariously from the front wall. It was the ultimate doer-upper (or puller-downer and start again-er). But with such a glorious aspect and a view to sell your soul for, we expected it to be snapped up in no time and transformed into something truly magical. Over dinner, we fantasised about snapping it up ourselves. Romantic notions of the perfect place to live out our dotage were encouraged by the robust local plonk. The more we drank, the more possible it seemed.

Of course, the next day, reality dawned and all romantic notions of our place in the sun evaporated. Like many Greek islands out of season, not-so-idyllic Ithaca is cold, wet and closed, wild winter tempests could sweep us out to sea without a paddle and what about healthcare for our aging bones? Also, the prospect of trying to learn a new language with an unfamiliar alphabet made our old brains hurt. The booze from the night before didn’t exactly help. Besides, the curse of Brexit meant it was nigh on impossible anyway. That was two years ago.

Imagine our surprise when, this year, back in Ithaca, we stumbled upon the same tumbledown wreck with the same wonky For Sale sign hanging precariously from the front wall. We started to romanticise all over again. Well, an old boy can dream, can’t he? I wonder…

Coughs and Sneezes Spread Diseases

Despite having had both the COVID and flu jabs, from the end of November I’ve endured a never-ending stream of colds which have all merged into one long snot-fest not seen since I was a nipper. And to add to my misery, the start of meteorological winter gave me a nasty rasping cough that kept us both awake with my constant hacking. Why are these things always worse at night?

My dreaded lurgy subsided a little over the festive period – I think over-indulgence of the Devil’s brew masked the pain – only to re-emerge as an ear infection earlier this month. ‘Winter pressures’ as they’re called in the trade, always put a huge strain on health services at this time of year but, according to those in the know, hospitals are fuller than normal at the moment, particularly with grey tops like us.

My sore ear needed more than just a couple of paracetamol so off I trudged to the quack. The practice nurse had her own theory about why coughs and sneezes are worse this winter. COVID’s back in town, she thinks, newly minted. Not so deadly but still dangerous.

Just when you thought it was safe to bin those bleedin’ face masks.

Wherever I May Roam

The last time I received a sexual health sales pitch from Britain’s favourite high street pharmacy, it was about erectile dysfunction. Bloody cheek, I thought. No floppy problem here at Pansy HQ, no siree. Not yet, anyway. The penny must’ve dropped with the caring people at Boots the Chemist because now they recommend ‘Roam’, a masturbation cream…

“… for better penis play, heightened sensation and more intense orgasm. Unlike lubes, this transforming balm keeps you going for longer. STROKE, GLIDE & ELEVATE your solo play time. Enriched with extra caring COCONUT & SHEA.”

And apparently, it’s great for ‘edging’ and ‘jelqing’. Any idea? No? Me neither. In my day, we just called it wanking. And why ‘Roam’? Something to do while waiting for a bus in the rain? Sure beats fumbling to get the brolly up. Need some light relief in the meat and two veg aisle at Tesco’s? Or maybe getting a bit bored queuing up to ride the ‘Big One’ at Blackpool Pleasure Beach? Best whip out your Roam from your man bag and pleasure yourself instead. The mind boggles.

Still, at £4.99 with 50% off in the sales, it’s a steal. And it’s vegan too, so that’s alright then. Too late for Liam’s Christmas stocking, though.

Like a Bad Penny

We caught COVID on a flying visit to Bulgaria in 2022. Thankfully, as we’d been vaxed to the max, our symptoms were fairly mild, “…more man-flu than death-bed,” as I wrote at the time. And guess what? Just like the proverbial bad penny, COVID turned up again. The nice young lady sitting next to Liam on our return flight from Corfu coughed and spluttered all the way home. She was very apologetic and obviously couldn’t help it, so what can you do? Grin and bear it.

At worst, we thought we might come down with a summer cold. We didn’t reckon on the dreaded COVID again. Of course, it might not have been our poorly fellow passenger, but she is our prime suspect.

Oddly, only Liam was struck down – I was fine. His COVID symptoms were the same as before – slight fever, foggy head and a nasty dry cough that lingered. Still, every cloud, as they say. As an Olympics-obsessive, Liam’s duvet days consisted of hacking his way through non-stop rowing and running, sailing and swimming, jumping and gymnastics, with balls and bats, sticks and stones, paddles, poles and goals galore. And, naturally, Nurse Jack was on hand to attend to his every whim and fancy.

Prevention is the Best Medicine

As we strolled into the village for a few Sunday sherries, we happened upon this poster on the high street. It took us by surprise – but in a really good way.

Last week was HIV Testing Week, backed by a national campaign called It Starts With Me and offering free home testing kits for all. We’ve come a long way since testing involved a heart-stopping clinic visit and a nail-biting two-week wait for the result. While AIDS may not be the kiss of death it once was – unless you live in Sub-Sahel Africa, that is – the disease still stalks the bars and bedrooms. We have the real opportunity to rid ourselves of its toxic embrace once and for all. Because, after all, prevention is the best medicine.

In Sickness and In Health

It’s been a year since my old girl died. She was 93, but even though she was frail and a bit mutton – well, a lot mutton – in many ways she was blessed. She lived a long, eventful life and she kept her marbles right up to the end. Others are not so lucky. There can’t be many people, directly or indirectly, untouched by the cruelty of dementia. Even though science and wealth have kept the Grim Reaper at bay, our minds often can’t keep up, and it’s miserable. The Big D must be particularly tough for the wives, husbands and partners of the sufferers. There are no happy endings, just ’til death do us part.

But all is not lost. Dementia is gradually revealing its dark secrets, and with light comes reward – earlier diagnosis, better treatment and maybe a cure one day. The trouble is, it’s a hard slog and it all takes cash. The Alzheimer’s Society here in the UK are currently running a TV ad campaign called The Ultimate Vow to raise awareness. It shines a light on the everyday struggles of couples living with dementia. It’s brilliant and it made me cry.

We give not just for others but also for ourselves.

Meat and Two Veg

Continuing with the gym junkie theme from last week. Given my aversion to unnecessary movement and a low boredom threshold, I keep myself amused at the gym by reading a newspaper. My daily rag of choice is the I (I for Independent). I know buying an actual printed newspaper is rather old-fashioned these days but I like thumbing through the I. It’s an easy read – a digest of the news with minimal preaching. I’m way too set in my ways to be told what to think. The paper regularly features surveys of various everyday activities, and one that stuck in my mind recently was about washing – pertinent when getting all hot and bothered on an exercise bike. Apparently, 34% of Britons don’t wash their meat and two veg when showering. Listen up, lads. No one likes cheesy wotsits in the bedroom.

Images courtesy of Loddon Community Gym.

Care in the Community

Many gym bunnies get a kick out of it. Apparently, pumping iron can pump the endorphins too, the brain’s feel-good neurotransmitters. After a decade on the treadmill, I can’t say I’ve ever noticed my mood improve. The truth is, I go to the gym because I have to – doctor’s orders – and not because I want to. Following our move to the village, Liam and I joined the community gym. It’s a small but perfectly formed facility housed in the pretty annex of our local library. We used to belong to a more industrial strength torture chamber in town, encircled by beefy blokes in tattoos and tight togs getting down and sweaty. Our community gym is a more sedate affair with a mostly mature crowd trying to dodge the Grim Reaper – us included. I call it my care in the community.

Keeping the gym going is a constant hand-to-mouth exercise. A grant from the local council helps with running costs, but money is always tight and this requires imaginative ways to raise some dosh. Cue the recent 12-hour cyclathon. On one of the hottest days of the year, 21 members took part. And yes, that’s Liam doing his bit (bottom left).

If you look really closely you can just make out my knee behind him. I was there for moral support.

Images courtesy of Loddon Community Gym.

What’s Your Poison?

Every month without fail, Chet Contact drops on the mat. Produced by the Chet Valley Churches, the community magazine is packed with handy information about local community groups and services for believers and non-believers alike. There’s a lot going on round these parts. From bells to balls, bats to bowls, cakes to quizzes, pumping iron to eyeing up the birds, from stage to the silver screen, arts and crafts, knitting to nattering, foraging to growing your own, and much more besides – all country life is here.

I like the regular history piece in the mag. I knew Loddon has old roots – the earliest written reference to the village was around 1042 – but I was surprised to read that there’s been a pharmacy in Loddon on the same site for over 180 years. It’s now a branch of Boots. Long gone are all those jars full of potions laced with opium and mercury from the apothecary’s handbook of old wives’ tales. Maybe that’s why, back then, life expectancy was only about 57.