health

The Mercy Rule

I showed up at 8:15 for an 8:30 appointment with an empty stomach and low expectations.

That’s the deal with the annual physical—no breakfast, no coffee, and a brain running at about 60% of its usual speed. I don’t fast for spiritual reasons or wellness trends. I fast because my doctor needs clean blood numbers, and I comply like a slightly resentful teenager.

The elevator was out. I walked to the third floor instead of the second, which meant the man behind me who was more upset about the elevator than I was slipped ahead at check-in. He seemed like he needed the win more than I did.

The waiting room was generous with its space. Nobody had to sit near anyone else, which suited me fine. I have a tendency to turn my extrovert on in public, and once it’s on, it doesn’t always know when to stop. A stranger in a medical waiting room has things going on under the surface you can’t see. So I did what everyone else did. I stared at my phone like it owed me money.

They called me back second. First was the scale. Shoes weigh something. They used to account for that—a five-pound mercy rule, basically. Someone decided to eliminate it, and now the number just stares back at you. My BMI is what it is. A functional chubby-ness has carried me this far, and I’m not prepared to be dramatic about it.

The nurse ran through the standard questions, and I gave her honest answers, which felt like a small personal victory. At some point in your early-60s, you develop a reasonable ability to answer medical questions without editorializing.

Blood pressure: 122/68. I nearly fell out of the chair. When I give blood, which I do regularly and usually after at least one cup of coffee, that number climbs. This time I forgot the cuff was coming, which meant my body didn’t have time to manufacture anxiety about the reading. I’m holding onto this number like a trophy.

My doctor has a name that sounds like something you’d order at a tea shop, which I mean affectionately. He is good on the dialogue but a little lean on checking the reflexes. We had a brief negotiation about who was holding the microphone during my update, but we found a rhythm. He touched me exactly four times with the stethoscope. Four. I don’t know what number I was expecting, but it felt light for something called a physical.

I was hoping he’d look in my ears so I could mention my shower routine, but I suppose that joke keeps until next year.

Upstairs for the blood draw, which is where the morning got interesting.

The waiting room was full. The promo board cycling between health tips and marketing content included a note that visually impaired patients should swipe with three fingers on the check-in screen. I sat with that for a moment

A woman came in with a four-year-old and a seven-month-old. I’d guessed three on the older one, which she politely corrected. There was one open chair next to me and one across the room. I asked if she’d like me to move so she could have two together. The baby was still in that loading-personality-coming-soon phase, but watching the mom manage both kids with one hand free reminded me we were all young and exhausted once.

One woman checked in, glanced at the open seat next to me, and immediately chose to lean against the wall until a chair opened on the far side of the room. I took no offense. If I had to choose between sitting next to a guy who might start a conversation and leaning against a wall, I might avoid me too.

When my wife Judy was still waiting for her draw and I was heading out, I gave her a fist bump. “See you at home, dear.”

A few people smiled. One older woman held onto it a second longer than the rest. Maybe she had a husband she adored. Maybe she missed one. Either way, she smiled like the gesture meant something, and that was worth the empty stomach.

Monday, I’ll get the call about the results. Neither my doctor nor I is expecting anything alarming.

If I could write my own prescription, it would just say: daily laughter, refills unlimited. I’m pretty good at finding it. Family close, health stable, nothing urgent on the horizon.

Lucky doesn’t quite cover it, but it’s the closest word I’ve got.

Something’s Going Around

Yesterday I couldn’t pull a post together. Tried a few angles, threw them against the wall, watched them slide like wet spaghetti. Even Mr. AI couldn’t find the thread. I let it go — not a waste, just something to bank for later.

So here I am today, a little achy, coughing in the morning, wondering if something’s coming for me or if this is just what your 60s feel like on a Saturday.

My walks have been fine if your standard is “I checked the box.” Earlier version of me could do five or six miles without thinking about it. My daughter and I took some long ones during COVID. Now I’m listening to a book and ignoring the fact that my feet are staging a slow rebellion.

The shoes are partly to blame. Found a pair I loved — perfect, until this week, when they let some foot pain in like they’d been holding it in reserve. I have Good Feet inserts and a couple of things I ordered online. None of them seems particularly invested in my well-being.

Then there’s the Ellie factor. Playing on the floor with a granddaughter sounds simple. It is not. Getting down is fine. The problem is bending my knees during the playing, and the moment she grabs my finger expecting me to spring upright regardless of whether my leg is folded into an origami crane. She has places to go. The inspection waits for no one. She’s also figured out that closed doors are a lot less intimidating when one of the big people is backing her up.

The germs are probably hers, too. COVID made me paranoid — cart handles, my phone, anything touched by human hands. I’ve relaxed about most of that. What I can’t get ahead of is sharing a spoon with someone who has no concept of germ theory and does not care. I sample things off her tray to encourage her to eat. She samples my lunch with her eyes until I give in. That’s the deal. I’m a willing accomplice.

Oklahoma cedar season is technically over, but I’m not ruling it out. I lived in Texas 15 years and never touched an allergy pill — thought I was immune, that pollen and I had some kind of truce. It left me alone long enough that I got cocky. Now my daily regimen is not exactly intimidating: a multivitamin, an allergy pill, and a baby aspirin. Not a real aspirin. A baby one.

The aches don’t stop me from anything. They don’t usually last more than an hour. Still cooking meals, planting flowers, escorting Ellie from one approved zone to the next.

Whatever it is — age, pollen, shoes, shared spoons — I’ll keep sleeping well and showing up. She’s going to grab that finger again tomorrow whether I’m ready or not.

The Art of the Squeeze: Another Donor Day

My double red eligibility opened up earlier this week — right on schedule, every sixteen weeks, whether the world needs me or not. I didn’t want to look like the guy who watches the schedule too closely, so I waited two days before heading in. Judging by the mood I walked in with, the staff probably wished I’d waited a couple more.

Before I left for OBI in Norman, I had to give our final hockey boy his end-of-season pep talk. I snapped a picture of him before I left so I could pretend I was still there when he actually walked out the door. The picture was taken a half hour too early. I am a scoundrel with no photographic ethics.

The older couple ahead of me at the front desk had arrived early. Fortunately, the staff member recognized my impatience and quickly got me into the screening room. I had a couple of lines I was proud of. When they asked if I’d ever donated under a different name, I said I usually go by Andrew, but sometimes Andy. When they asked if anything had changed since I completed the survey four hours earlier, I said I’d been briefly pregnant but wasn’t anymore. My slap-happiness does not always have good taste.

The screener, it turned out, works at the hockey rink. She has brothers who played out of state and were billeted at houses just like ours. Except the homemade pizza probably wasn’t as good.

Three people got involved once I was set up at the apheresis machine — the vampire machine, as I think of it, since it gives back what it doesn’t need.

The first got me settled in. Heating pad, arm pillow, squeezey toy. She handled the light work so the next person could focus on the vampire-specific functions.

The second was Hannah. I didn’t say Montana, but I thought it. She walked me through a recent FDA rule change: you now squeeze the toy the entire time, not just when blood is leaving your body. Apparently, the change was made to keep things straightforward for everyone. It does more than tickle when the flow reverses, by the way.

The TV had replaced the Power Rangers with American Ninja Warriors. One contestant was clearly training full-time for this at age 52. I thought about thinking something more critical, then remembered I was the guy who drove across town to lie in a chair and squeeze a toy. With the TV failing me, I studied the donor-recipient chart on the wall. My O+ can go to any blood type with a plus sign. I’m basically the Costco of blood.

The third had a paramecium tattoo on her left upper arm and a light blue bandanna. I’m not explaining it further. After the needle came out, she reached for the stretchy wrap and opened a drawer full of colors that would have had me deliberating for several minutes. She chose beige. It was the end of the roll, so I can respect that. But couldn’t I be special just once?

I settled in at the snack table with my Chex Mix and Gatorade, Nutter Butters tucked away to go. With my daughters out of the house now, setting them on the kitchen counter still brings back some fond memories — something to look forward to on their next visit.

So why do I throw two hours away watching things I don’t care about while surrounded by tattoos and piercings? It’s not the T-shirts, though “Get Your Sticks on Route 66” is genuinely good. It might be a little bit of my dad, who donated regularly — except he had hepatitis, which probably disqualifies the hereditary angle. Since he’s not around to ask, it still makes a good story.

When all the other reasons fall away, I’m healthy and able to, and that’s enough. When the cholesterol results show up in the OBI app, I smile and pat myself on the back for something I had no control over

I must like people at least a little. I married one.

Sonic Indulgence: A Saga of Tea, Thrift, and Southern Syrup

Since moving South fifteen years ago, my iced tea consumption has gone from “occasional treat” to “questionable daily habit.” The problem is, down here “iced tea” usually means something closer to liquid candy – a tooth-rotting confection so aggressively sweet it makes a dessert menu look restrained. I have nothing against sugar. I have everything against ambush.

When I visit neighbors, and they offer tea, my first question is always about the sugar content. If the answer is “It’s sweet,” I politely pivot to water. You can always add sugar to a drink, but you can’t exactly perform an extraction once it’s in there. I have standards, and “liquid candy” doesn’t meet them.

The Evolution of the Brew

My relationship with tea has gone through several distinct incarnations over the last three decades.

The Heirloom Era:
We received a tea maker as a wedding gift over 30 years ago. After a brief mishap involving a hot stove burner, the smell of melting plastic, and some emergency electrical tape, we replaced it with a duplicate model that served us faithfully until last Christmas.

The QT Discovery:
When we moved to DFW, QuikTrip became my morning ritual after school drop‑offs. For under $1.50, I could custom‑blend my own Black Mango tea—mixing the sweet and unsweetened versions to get it just right. It was a glorious age of autonomy, right up until they dared to raise the price by a quarter. I’m a man of principle; I refused to be a slave to their financial whims over twenty‑five cents.

The Sonic Obsession:
Just before the world turned upside down in 2020, my wife started working from home. To justify picking up her daily Coke Zero, I began ordering a Route 44 unsweet tea with a squirt of blackberry (purely for balance, of course). It was the perfect middle ground—flavorful, but not excessive, and comically oversized enough to last the day.

The Art of the Deal (and the App)

As with all good things, the Sonic Era eventually got tangled in corporate fine print. First, there was the 2–4 PM Happy Hour. Then it became “Use the app for half‑price.” Now it’s a convoluted dance of tapping through a digital cart and hunting for the one coupon that actually works.

While my wife remains loyal to her Coke Zero, I’ve taken a tactical step back to protect my hard‑won reputation as the family miser.

Practice What You Preach

To appear properly frugal (and to further manage my sugar intake), I’ve developed a new system: The 50/50 Split. I mix half of a Sonic tea with a batch of homemade tea. It cuts the sweetness, it cuts the cost in half, and it provides daily evidence that I am practicing the thriftiness I preach to my kids and grandkids—right down to doing light kitchen chemistry to save roughly a dollar a day.

The Verdict

I’m not addicted to the habit; I’m committed to the principle. And if that commitment lets me feel just a little morally superior to my wife’s inescapable soda habit? I’ll just call it the ‘sweetener’ in my perfectly balanced, half-priced tea.

Big Bones and the BMI That Never Stood a Chance

My mother always had an explanation ready for why I never fit the BMI chart. She didn’t need science or statistics — she had something better: maternal confidence. She’d look at me, shrug like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and say, “You just have big bones.”

That was her entire medical opinion. No copay required.

And honestly, she wasn’t wrong about the spirit of it. I’ve never fit the chart. Not as a kid in a small Christian school where the gene pool was basically a puddle. Not in the country high school where the puddle got wider but not deeper. Not even after Basic Training, when I briefly achieved the closest thing to “normal” the BMI would ever allow.

My job growing up was simple: be big, look athletic enough, and protect my brain from whatever forces were trying to keep it from reaching its potential. After Basic Training, the weight came back like it had been waiting in the car the whole time. It’s been remarkably consistent ever since. My clothes from years ago still fit. My doctors have stopped giving me the “you should lose some weight” speech. At this point, my body is about as predictable as my electric bill or my bedtime.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that not fitting the chart doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. Sometimes the chart just wasn’t designed with you in mind. Sometimes the chart is wrong. Sometimes the chart needs to mind its own business.

Everyone has something that knocks them out of the norm. Mine just happens to be visible on a scale. Yours might be hiding in your personality, your habits, or that one hobby you don’t tell people about until you know them well enough.

These days, my attempts to lose weight fall into the “sure, why not” category. Occasionally I even “sympathy diet” with my wife when she decides she likes food more than me — which isn’t true, but chocolate is a close second. Mostly, though, I’ve learned to lean into the areas where I can be judged on merit instead of metrics created to make everyone feel like they’re supposed to fit into the same box.

I’m not my BMI. I’m not my weight. I’m not even my mother’s “big bones,” though I’ll admit the line has aged surprisingly well.

So no, I don’t fit the chart. I probably never will. But the chart never really knew what to do with me anyway.

The Hot Tub Hero (Or: Why I Should Never Be Left Alone With a Bucket)

Yesterday’s grand group project quickly devolved into a solo mission of poor life choices.

The original plan was simple: freshen the hot tub water by draining 50% of it. In my head, I had a literal squad of “strong young men” to handle the heavy lifting. Specifically, my son and two local hockey players. But as it turns out, young athletes are surprisingly fragile, and my son has this pesky habit of “working for a living.”

Between one hockey player claiming the “achy flu,” the other nursing a wrist strain from the weekend’s festivities, and my son refusing to fake the “Super Bowl Flu” just to haul water for his old man, I was left as a department of one.

The Methodology of a Madman

There were two ways to handle this.

The Siphon Method: This involves a hose, gravity, and the vast amount of patience required to watch water move at the speed of a tectonic plate.
The “Active” Method: This involves a “big strong guy” (hypothetically) dipping 5-gallon buckets into the tub and marching them to the driveway like some sort of suburban sherpa.

Being famously impatient and unwilling to have the tub out of commission for more than a couple hours, I chose the bucket brigade. I figured I’d just use my knees, stay balanced, and knock it out.

Math vs. Reality

Why was I doing this? Because of the cyanuric acid, or as I like to call it, “The Chemistry of Too Much Fun.”

I filled the buckets in groups of four. I told myself, “This isn’t so bad,” for exactly three minutes. Then, reality set in. My math was optimistic: in a 400-gallon tub, four 5-gallon buckets should be 5% of the volume. Simple, right?

Wrong.

My Chest: Started screaming by the third round.
My Shoulders: Notified me they were no longer “willfully participating” and were now working under extreme duress.
The Water Level: Decreased at a rate significantly slower than my remaining will to live.

I started taking “strategic breaks” to play chess on my phone, watching my near-retired body slowly go on strike. It turns out that 5% math only works if you fill the buckets to the brim, which I stopped doing about ten minutes in because water is heavy and I am a mortal man.

The Merciful End

Eventually, my wife appeared and pronounced the project “done.”

Was this because we hit the 50% mark? Or was it because she reached her limit for my “exhaustion whining”? The world may never know. By that point, the water was too low to even get a full scoop. I didn’t “quit”—I simply decided that my time was no longer being spent effectively.

Lessons (Hopefully) Learned

Next time, there will be a pump. The process will look like this:

Attach hose.
Turn on pump.
Read a book for two hours.

The only muscle I plan on straining next time is my eye muscles as I scan the pages of a novel while a piece of $50 machinery does the job I was clearly never meant to do.

What Two Hours of Productivity Looks Like When You’re the Only One Who Can Hear

I have been up for two hours. What do I have to show for it? I have had breakfast and consolidated two half-empty peanut butter jars into one.

And there is the reason I got up early in the first place.

In my sleepy stupor with new earplugs firmly secured, I heard a beep-beep. Was it something making odd noises after the generator kicked on? No, the clock wasn’t blinking. Must have been in my dream…beep-beep. This definitely was not in my dream.

Jeff, my son, had called the night before as his new house around the corner had just had its alarms tested. “Were they going to go all night?” he wondered. Give it 10 minutes, I told him. Should just be the standard test. Ironically, our alarm—which had been off the ceiling all during our cold weather a couple weeks back—decided this morning was the perfect time to remind me why I pulled it off in the first place.

I wandered to the garage to get the ladder in my underwear, realizing I would not be crawling back into bed. Carefully placed the ladder in front of our bedroom door. Removed the alarm, disconnected the batteries. Sat on the couch for a few moments to ensure no other annoying utterances were issued by any electronic device in our home.

At least I woke up for another day.

With coffee brewing and pajamas stowed until this evening, I cursed the fact that I am the adult in the house with the best hearing even with earplugs in. I cursed the hour of sleep I would miss. Then I did my daily chess puzzles to try to wake my brain up. I immediately thought about the afternoon’s potential to grab a nap.

Yes, I can make it through this day.

The Seventh Decade Shuffle: New Moves, Old Joints, and Unexpected Beats

Entering my seventh decade feels a bit like joining a new season of “Dancing with the Stars”—except the stars are my grandkids, my doctor, and the ever-present siren call of retirement planning. Here’s how the choreography is going so far:

1. The Weighty Waltz

Walking daily used to keep the “pound demons” at bay.
Now?

The demons apparently have better cardio than I do.
Is it my slower pace, shorter distance, or is my body still in mourning for the Texas trails I left behind?
Oklahoma, you’ve got big walking shoes to fill.

2. The Lab Report Rumba

Yearly physicals now come with a side of mystery:

“Good news: your liver and kidneys are happy campers! But why is your potassium doing the cha-cha?”
Turns out, swapping candy for nuts and raisins comes with its own plot twist—sky-high potassium.
Considering switching to cranberries, but they just don’t have the same snack-appeal.
Even my daily Sonic Iced Tea is under nutritional review. Next up: water, but only if garnished with denial.

3. The Proximity Polka

For the first time in years, I’m within 25 minutes of two of my kids—and a grandchild!

After the nomadic years of college, internships, and “that little COVID reunion,” this is a big change.
New grandparent dance moves required. Baby steps, literally.

4. The Retirement Riff

Testing out the “retirement dance”:

What will it look like when my wife and I both retire?
Will we be waltzing into the sunset, or quickstepping around health insurance premiums?
She might keep consulting to protect our nest egg from an early molt.

5. The Local Loop (or, The Costco Conga)

New city, new adventures! Or, at least, new routes to Sam’s, Costco, Aldi, and Chick-Fil-A.

If exploring means discovering a new traffic light between me and a chicken sandwich, consider me Magellan.

6. The Pickup Truck Two-Step

Still driving the Sienna van to Home Depot.

I throw down the seats and hope no one notices me hauling mulch with minivan swagger.
Someday, I’ll get a truck—and finally earn those approving nods from fellow DIYers.

7. The Flexibility Foxtrot

Kids nearby today, but maybe not tomorrow.

Any comfort I find in this house or city could be temporary—family migration is always a possibility.
Like any good dancer, I need to stay light on my feet (and limber in the mind).

Final Bow

No dread—just anticipation. This decade will reveal its steps with or without my rhythm. While my bones are still flexible (ish), my mind has some catching up to do. Admitting it is my first move toward embracing the dance.

May your seventh-decade shuffle be full of laughs, love, and only the occasional pulled muscle.

The Crown Saga: Royal Pains in Modern Dentistry

The Crowning Moment (Or, So I Thought)

Getting a dental crown was supposed to be my ticket to chewing with confidence. My dentist, in her infinite wisdom, said:

“It’s probably a good thing it’ll take two weeks for your permanent crown. If you have any sensitivity, we can do a root canal first!”
This is the dental equivalent of “Don’t worry… unless you have to.”

Expectation vs. Reality: Sensitivity Strikes Back

My expectation: Crown goes on, I live happily ever after.
Reality: Tooth starts sending Morse code signals of sensitivity.
Dental logic: If pain appears after the crown is installed, “We can still do the root canal. It’s just a little harder.”
Translation: “We keep a secret stash of intimidating tools for just such an emergency.”

The Tools of the Trade

Let’s talk about crown removal. I didn’t get the full view, but judging by the sounds and the dentist’s focused look, the process seemed to involve:

Tools that only come out for crown extractions (possibly shared with Indiana Jones).
A “let’s see what works” approach, which is always comforting when applied to your mouth.
Glue so strong that, if it weren’t there, the world would be plagued with swallowed crowns.

The Sensitivity Waiting Game

So now, every so often, my crowned tooth tingles. Is this a precursor to a root canal? Or just my tooth’s way of saying “hello”?
Meanwhile, my wife recently dodged the crown bullet with a simple sealant—no royal drama for her.

Past Adventures in Dental Delays

Let’s not forget:

Previous root canal: Diagnosed pain, then I gallivanted around Europe for two weeks (painkillers in tow, untouched—because I’m apparently part Viking).

My Royal Plan

Current strategy: Wait it out. Maybe it’s just sensitivity.
Possible risk: Waking up at 2 AM clutching my jaw, composing a blues song.
Backup: My “higher than normal” pain threshold and a willingness to see how long I can stretch this out.

The Real “Crown” Takeaway

Sure, “The Crown Saga” might sound like a Netflix drama, but my version is all nerves and novocaine—less palace intrigue, more waiting room magazines.
But if I can avoid a return trip to the dental tool armory, I’ll consider my reign a success.

Adventures in Dentistry: Numbness, Cavities, and Bonus Surprises

(I had some help organizing my thoughts, but there is LOTS OF ME in this post. My friend just helped me out.)

The dentist visit wasn’t bad. I mean, it could have been worse. I could have been visiting a dentist in Russia. There could have been pain. But overall, it was a pretty good experience—well, as good as a day at the dentist can get. Let’s review the highlights of my tooth-taming escapade.

1. The Numbing Juice: A Marathon, Not a Sprint

I was given the choice: a shot or gas. I went with the shot, and wow, did it pack a punch. I write this at nearly 5:00 p.m., and my face is just now returning to normal.

The “numb-numb juice” was administered around 11:00 a.m., and it stayed with me like an overcommitted houseguest. My nose finally joined the land of the living sometime after lunch, during which I carefully sipped a milkshake so I wouldn’t accidentally chew my own cheek. Pro tip: nothing says “good decision” like avoiding self-inflicted mouth injuries.

2. From Rock Legends to Light Rock Ambiance

The radio started off strong with 80s and 90s rock. But at some point, the station switched to light rock. A sudden Beach Boys song made me question everything. Are the Beach Boys considered light rock? Or were they just preparing me for the emotional rollercoaster of dental work? The world may never know.

3. The “Wheel of Fortune” Numbing Timeline

By the time the numbness finally wore off, it was Wheel of Fortune time. That’s seven hours of “throw the pain in the other room” magic. Reflecting back, the dentist did mention, “The cavities are really close to the nerve.” I guess that explained the Olympic-level dose of numbing juice.

4. The Block: My New Favorite Dental Gadget

Let’s talk about the block—the little device they stick in your mouth to prop it open. At first, it felt weird and awkward, but when they removed it to let me rest, I realized how much I relied on it. Without it, I had no clue how far to keep my mouth open. The block became my security blanket. Everyone needs a crutch sometimes, and mine was a piece of plastic wedged between my teeth.

5. The Surprise Cavity Bonus

While she was working, the dentist casually said, “Hey, I noticed another cavity while I was in there. I went ahead and prepped it for a filling, too.”

Uh, come again?

Apparently, while my face was numb and I was blissfully unaware, they decided to tackle a bonus cavity. It was all perfectly legal, of course—thanks to the form I initialed beforehand. You know the one: “The estimate is just an estimate. If additional mutually beneficial work is identified, we’ll take care of it!” Well played, dentist. Well played.

6. Tear-Off Cavities: The Sequel No One Asked For

Two out of the three cavities today were what they called “tear-offs.” Essentially, the edges of old fillings decided to betray me and let the bad guys in. The third cavity was the surprise bonus cavity. Not a freebie, but hey, it came with built-in discounts because, as the dentist might say, “The drill’s already warmed up!”

7. Crown Removal: Next Week’s Fun Adventure

Next week, I get to have a “false crown” removed. Apparently, a cavity snuck in under it. (Yes, this happens. No, I didn’t know it could.)

Here’s the good news: explosives won’t be necessary to remove the crown. Instead, they’ll use a “tool” that “turns the glue into water,” allowing the crown to practically leap out of my mouth. At least, that’s how it was explained to me. I’m choosing to believe this process will be as magical and painless as described.

Final Thoughts: A Dentist Visit to Remember

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t the worst dentist visit. Sure, I left with a numb face, a bonus cavity, and a few less dollars in my bank account. But I also left with functioning teeth, a renewed appreciation for the block, and the knowledge that my crown removal won’t require dynamite.

Here’s hoping next week’s crown adventure is just as “pleasant.” And by pleasant, I mean over quickly, with minimal drama and no surprise soundtrack changes.