Adjusting
I’ve been poked and prodded twice in the last several months, checking my innards, first with an MRI and then with a fancy camera that detected a nuclear tracer. In both cases the subject of the investigation came back clean, which is a pretty good sign for the aging body of an old man. I’ll take it.
And I’m grateful I have the resources to afford such medical care, although part of it comes to me courtesy of Lyndon Johnson and The Social Security Amendments of 1965 that gave us Medicare and Medicaid, although I wish he’d simply made it Medicare for all, but he did the best with what he had. Maybe one day we’ll have another congress that wants people to have good medical care, although I’m not holding my breath.
In the meantime, I’ve got to figure out what to do with this aging body that still seems to be working pretty well. I’ve been in a tiny funk lately, partly due to the upset of losing my car, wrestling with the county taxman, and having my son move out. The latter hit me harder than expected. After his mother passed, he helped fill the void. Now he’s off, and I’m alone, alone. But I suspect I’ll survive. After all, I’ve lived on my own before. So this is simply a change in a long life of changes, and adjustment always takes a moment or two. And some are simply harder than others.