A post in which I get some bad news

Before I get into the heavy stuff here, I need to mention that I realized today what it was about Justin and Chad's place that was so odd. It was the fact that display cabinets cover some of the windows. When you walk in the front door, as with most townhouses, there is a double window that gives into the living room. That window was covered with a huge glass display case. It's rather disconcerting, and throws you off, as if you've stepped into an alternate reality or something where the insides don't match the outsides. I found it very disconcerting, obviously.

***

Well the other shoe dropped from my physical today. The doctor's office called to tell me my blood work came back. My cholesterol is high (210 when it should be below 200) as were my triglycerides (191 when they should be below 150). Although I was disappointed and frustrated - I've been living on fucking twigs and berries for the last three months, and they are still saying less, less, less - I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. Then they dropped the bomb. My PSA level is elevated. Just like Dad. Just like my Uncle Chris. It's 4.9 when it should be 4 or below. The doc is referring me to a urologist for further tests.

Although I was initially pretty much too stunned to react initially, I made up for it by working up a big ole head of anger on my way home. So what the fuck good does it do to try to do things right? With all I've given up, all I've lost, am I required to sacrifice my manhood too? Is that what it fucking takes??!! I raged internally.

I've lived my life trying not to follow in the footsteps of my father. My dad has multiple health issues mainly caused by his trying to dig his grave with his teeth for the last twenty or so years. I've given up meat. I eat tons of vegetables and fresh fruit. I eat a healthier diet than anyone I know. I've been viewed as a freak and squirmed as I eschewed the southern tenets of politesse in refusing to eat meat when offered (to be an ungracious guest is one of the worst of the southern Cardinal Sins); not to mention enduring the hostility and derision of carnivores with astonishing frequency. I've tried (with varying levels of success) to keep my weight within some kind of moderate range. And for what?? To be given news like this at an even younger age than my father was!

Fuck it, I thought, I'll just eat 27 fucking cows like everyone else, drop dead, and call it a damn day. What's the point? But then I thought about all those poor animals enduring the misery of factory farms, and I know I can't do that.

Fucking genetics, I thought, what good does it do to try to be smart if doom is coded into you from birth anyway? It's not FAIR! And then I thought about people with Down Syndrome, or any of the host of genetic diseases that can cause life-long misery, not to mention the little daughter of a close friend of mine who has been suffering from a myriad of illnesses her whole life. It isn't fair. And up until recently, I've always enjoyed excellent health. So then I felt like an ungrateful whiny bastard, and that always makes me feel worse.

Fuck it, I thought, given the choice of being turned into a eunuch at 42 or dying, I'd really just as soon drop dead. Honestly, that's how I feel right now. I've actually thought about this before (not in the context I did today). I have no children. I have no partner. My friends would miss me, but they would be OK. It really wouldn't be that big of a ripple if I wasn't here any longer. That's why I decided not to quit smoking. If I shorten my life (I rationalized at the time) it's really of no significant consequence to anyone but me. For what exactly am I saving up all these extra years?

I have two grandmothers braving the ravages of old age right now. One is in a home, and although I have been happy for the fact that she seems to have regained her sense of self and found a way to make it work for her, I don't think that's something I really want to stick around for. Plus she has family to come and visit her, take her out occasionally, and make sure she's OK. There's not going to be anyone to come visit me if I'm in a nursing home.

The other is still in her home. Holding on my the skin of her teeth, but she's still there. She's living with one woman coming in to stay in the day, and another at night. One of the women basically drives her crazy, but she has no choice. She has to have these people in her home day and night. She lives for the weekends when one or the other of her children or grandchildren come in to visit. I'm never going to have the money to have round the clock staffing, and again, there will be no children or grandchildren to come and see me. She's out-lived all of her friends. If I out-live all my friends, I'll be alone.

These are not late-life outcomes to which I aspire. I've always consoled myself with the fact that the men in our family don't live that long. The generally pop off in their 60s or 70s from a stroke or heart attack. My dad's dad fell from a stroke walking out of church and never re-gained consciousness. As hard as that was for all of us (I was in high school at the time), that's the way I'd like to go. No emotional scenes, no farewells, just check out. So long, and thanks for all the sushi. Not that we get to choose such things of course.

But thoughts of living the last third of my life piddling in my Depends as a sexless, partnerless eunuch frankly just drive me to despair. I know they make those pumps and things now, but the thoughts of adding the explanation of the bicycle pump I'm carrying to the pre-sex talk I already have to have when I meet a potential partner is just more than I can bear. I can't take it. When I bring up that picture in my mind, all I can feel is a immediate and complete inner cringe. As practical as I try to be, and as hard as I try to own things that are difficult for me, I just don't think that I could do it. I think I'm a pretty strong person, but I just don't think I'm that strong.

I've learned to endure the everyday off-hand indignities of being a single in a world designed for and in the expectation of couples. Yes, waiter, I'm by myself. Table for one please. No, I'm not married. It seems to be a societal tenet that if you choose to be by yourself, in spite of all the social conditioning and inherent rewards to the contrary, that you just have to endure, take the scraps that you're offered, and shut the hell up. It's a carrot-and-stick setup. If you don't take the carrot you get the stick, and you had better bloody well like it. But this too??!

By the time I got home I was pretty upset. Part of me longed for someone to call (there is no way I would call anyone I know and dump this mess in their lap). Part of me couldn't bear the thoughts of being around people right now. There just isn't any way I could be around my friends and not talk about this, and I'm not ready to do that. I couldn't face the indignity. Despite the host of affronts I have endured over the last couple of years with for the most part a pretty stiff upper lip (I whine a lot more on here then I do in real life), this seems to be the straw. My back is broken.

Before I jump off a bridge or something (mentally) I at least need to go see the specialist and see what he has to say, although frankly given my family history I hesitate to cling to false hope. I went right into denial, put it aside, and decided not to deal with it right now.

I read for a while, but the book I'm reading right now is a biting satire of the British upper-class. Beautifully written, smart and sleek, but really, viciously, cynical. I started to feel like I needed a dose of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and a shower to de-tox, and put it down.

I turned on telly for background while I surfed the internet for a while. I ended up watching The Incredible Mr. Limpet, of all things, on TCM.

Well at least I can take comfort in the fact that I am making the most of my remaining time by making sure every moment counts.