“What are you doing with your retirement?” a friend asked me the other day. It was easy to answer: “I’m working at the customer end of the medical business.”
To be honest, I’m flat out. The knee surgeon one morning, the cardiologist the next, all topped up with visits to the optometrist and the dentist.
God knows how I used to fit in paid employment.
It’s the same for most of us who have reached a certain age.Credit: Getty Images
At each place, there’s a battery of tests. For example, the cardiologist wants to do three tests. There’s a “stress echo”, a blood-pressure test, and then a final stress test, conducted by the receptionist when she hands over the bill. Sure, the blood will drain from your face, but how quickly will your skin tone recover?
After she announces the figure, I hand over all the cards in my wallet: Medicare, private health insurance, credit card, Woolworths Rewards, the lot. She works away at her machine and, it turns out, I get a quarter of it back plus an ongoing discount at Bunnings.
I’ve now reassessed that message they broadcast on train stations: “Beware of the gap”. I used to think it was a safety notice but now realise it’s a warning about health cover.
All the same, I have great respect for the medical profession. Slowly, successfully, they’re replacing me bit by bit. The left knee was refitted at the beginning of the year; the right knee will follow. The lens in both eyes went years ago, replaced with something better. The dentist believes a couple of teeth are no longer fit for service, so works are soon to commence.
I’m reminded of the story about the hammer that had been in the family for three generations – the handle replaced five times, and the head twice. So, is it still the same hammer? And once I’ve been largely replaced, will it still be me?
Of course, there’s nothing special about my story. It’s the same for most of us who have reached a certain age.
At social gatherings, we try to limit the “health talk” to the first 15 minutes. Twenty minutes max. We call it the “organ recital” and encourage each other to exercise restraint. I’ll have five minutes on the topic of my dodgy knee, then Samantha can tell us all about her arthritic fingers before Rob takes the floor for a three-act comic opera called My Prostate.
It’s all great fun, and mostly supportive, although it’s hard to avoid a few rounds of one-upmanship.
“One new knee? That’s nothing. My surgeon replaced both knees, two wrists and part of my bum.”
“Only part of your bum? My surgeon took the whole bum, and he’s coming back for both legs.”
“Only your legs. Thy be lucky. My surgeon …”
It’s the Four Yorkshiremen sketch, rendered in evaporating body parts.
In our world, the word “hip” is never followed by the word “nightclub”, but always by the word “replacement”. Just as the word “joint” is now preceded by the word “sore”, rather than by the phrase “Would you please pass the …”
And yet, we don’t only share stories about our failing organs and dodgy limbs. Oh, no. We also talk about the doctors, the receptionists and the waiting rooms. “Do you know they do a great coffee and cake deal at the cafe that’s part of Royal North Shore? I really recommend the lamington.” Or: “I wouldn’t sign up with Dr Gupta. Oh, he’s a great surgeon, but the TV in the waiting room is always on Go! and it’s way too loud.” Or most popular topic of all: “Have you seen the price of the parking at the Missenden Road medical centre?”
Killing Me Softly was heard by one friend while attending breast cancer treatment; another swears she heard Highway to Hell.
We share tips about orthopaedic surgeons with the same enthusiasm that, decades ago, we would share tips about a trendy hairdresser. This doctor has great “after-sales service”, another has “a kindly manner”, a third is described as “an arrogant autocrat and total bastard, which is just what you want in a surgeon”.
Receptionists also receive detailed reviews from “so helpful and warm” to “rude!”, and even the text reminders about your appointment rate a mention: “Using CAPITAL LETTERS to warn you of the DIRE consequences if you don’t show up – well, it’s a bit TRUMP, isn’t it?”
Sometimes, during the organ recital, there’s a little amusement to be had. The other day, the conversation turned to the music they play in the foyer of the Chris O’Brien Lifehouse. Killing Me Softly was heard by one friend while attending her breast cancer treatment, while another swears she heard Highway to Hell. I’m starting to think my friends ask for extra procedures just so they can check out the foyer music. They may be hoping for Another One Bites the Dust just so they can share the story.
Meanwhile, Jocasta and I schedule regular “diary moments”, as we have always done. It used to be “Tuesday, I’m going to an opening night at the theatre; Wednesday, it’s pub trivia with the neighbours.” Now it’s “Tuesday, dentist; Wednesday, blood test; Thursday, physio.”
I don’t mean to whinge. It’s better, of course, than the alternative.
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Disclaimer : This story is auto aggregated by a computer programme and has not been created or edited by DOWNTHENEWS. Publisher: www.smh.com.au
