( 11 / 17 / 2018 )

This year I turned 69 years old.  One thing about getting old is that sometimes you run into awkward things that you didn't even know existed before.  These things often take the form of a new, unknown pain that seems to come out of nowhere.

The Beatles said that we'd all be over the hill at age 64.  Now, if there's anyone people my age listen to, it's the Beatles.  One day I began to feel a pain in my middle-of-the-body, i.e., the groin area.  It was a vague pain, the type that I often feel these days — one that comes and goes.  Problem was that this one came but didn't go.

This pain hung around.  On about the third day of its existence I woke up to find that it had great greatly increased and was accompanied by swelling.  So, if for no other reason, as tribute to the wisdom of John, Paul, George, and Ringo, my concern also began to swell.  The swelling took the form of an important portion of my male anatomy having increased in size to the point where it would be considered way bigger than normal.

And no, it's not what you're thinking;  if that were the case I probably wouldn't have minded at all.  As a matter of fact, the word 'important' as used above is probably not even the adjective that would be used to describe it.  On second thought, however, that adjective would probably not be used at all by any of the female half of our population, but without a doubt would be present in the male half's descriptions.  * * *  Now, just wait a minute.  * * *   On third thought, maybe I have that backwards.  * * *  Oh well, it doesn't matter who thinks what, the main thing is that this was very painful and awkward and needed to be fixed fast.

I don't think at this point that I need to elaborate further as to what the actual source of my discomfort was.  But if you haven't figured it out by now, let me  point  out to  you  a  major  difference  in  the  way  men

and women think of them, and that should cue you in:  Men tend to fear them.  Women, on the other hand, tend to speak of them in a humorous or farcical manner, such as "Ain't that a kick in your xxxx?", or else in a threatening way such as "If he gives you any trouble, just kick him in the xxxx."

Anyway, this Saturday morning, I woke up not only with increased pain and swelling, but difficulty walking, and more than a little bit of paranoia.  That, mixed with the awkwardness of the situation — no, I think it was more the pain than the awkwardness — made me cartwheel right over any type of calm deliberation as to what I should do next.  So I jumped immediately onto the emergency number of my trusted health care provider, the VA hospital in Oklahoma City.

I called the emergency number that the VA had wisely set aside for national  emergencies  of  this type — the type whose need is only surpassed by that of 'ED' treatment.  Upon hearing the description of my emergency, the VA hospital's emergency nursing dispatcher said, "You need to be seen at the hospital clinic within the next few hours."

So I said, "What do you think you'll have to do?  Is it serious?"

To which the voice on the other end said "Hopefully not.  But don't worry, if there's a real problem, we can simply remove them."

To which I replied, "Yikes! Okay, I'm coming right now;  when I get there, which floor do I come to?"

The voice said, "Oh, we're closed this weekend."  (Aha, our government in action.  And this in spite of the fact that this short conversation had me primed to leave skid marks all the way down the 65 miles of Interstate 40 to the VA hospital.)

Instead, I left skid marks down to the Weatherford  Hospital  Emergency  room.  Who did I find behind  the