Anniversary of the Big S coming up. February last year. Suddenly, as McCartney said, I wasn’t half the man I used to be, one big shadow hanging over me, oh yesterday came suddenly.
At least my doctor doesn’t pull punches. Medical science will do its best. But when the Guy Upstairs calls your number, you gotta go.
I can live, (or die?), with that. I’ve never had much faith in doctors ever since Dr Horace Fletcher said we should masticate 32 times: “Nature will castigate those who don’t masticate.”
Brother Georgie thought he meant 32 times a day. He also thought “masticate” meant something else. Nearly killed himself.
So take your medication but don’t fool yourself that it guarantees anything. That tell-tale numb feeling hits me every now and then (often when the wife is ranting about something) as a reminder that any day could be my last.
My wife doesn’t nag, but ranting is something wives have to do. It’s Rule 1 in the Wives Handy Manual: “Give your husband hell. Especially if he has that stupid smirk on his face. Which means he’s probably remembering some juicy premarital deed of yours. Like that night on the Hilton jetty. Harbour lights twinkling. Two Hilton Cannonballs under your belt. But not much else. And you . . . sweet surrender . . . what a night! Make him pay, sister!”
What can you do to avoid a repeat stroke?
Keep your weight down. I have a ten-point plan which seems to be working. At least I’ve shed a few kilos. Trouble is, I don’t know which parts of the plan actually work but here it is:
1. Think about sex.
2. Exercise. Walk the dog.
3. Cut down on salt. Your food will taste just as good but fast food will taste so salty you can’t eat it.
4. Think some more about sex.
5. Stick to a healthy diet – pork, goat’s milk, baked fowl (my wife does the best), Heather’s pudding and souse, mutton, yard fowl eggs, guavas, figs, coconut water.
6. Avoid wheat flour, bread, yeast. Make cassava hats instead.
7-10. Think about sex. Masticate, but not as often as old Horace recommends.
The great thing about going close to the edge is that you suddenly appreciate how wonderful life in Barbados is. Last Sunday, daughter Steph, three grands, Buster the dog and I took the cardio-vascular route from my place to Cherry Tree Hill. That is, from Shorey Village up vertical hills, ravines, terraces, gullies and whatnot until you arrive at Cherry Tree.
The view was breathtaking. Steph waxed philosophical: “This is so beautiful. It would be impossible to have bad thoughts here.” And little Haillie burst forth: “Thank You, God, for letting us enjoy this!”
Which brings us to the other side of the picture: why is there so much pent-up anger in Barbados? Why can’t you go anywhere without risking a ’busing?
My wife got one in Holders Hill recently. I got a lecture for parking in a gap next to Mile And A Quarter service station. A Government bus could have passed. But this fellow was raging. Why?
Yet, there are the nice ones. Some young ladies at Online Consultancies. One taught me all I’ll ever need to know about hard drives and the right way to put in things.
Paid my van licence in Speightstown last Monday. Cashier Melanie Griffith is all the Mile And A Quarter man wasn’t – sweet, friendly, a credit to NISE. The guard, fit and efficient, was smiling. (They’re really NISE in there. Last year, a young lady asked me for a “suckling”. A kind of pig, I think.)
Felt so good I got my wife a fancy doormat with metal in it. Told her it came from Do It Best, the perfect Valentine’s gift.
She was over the moon. Until grandson Raffie came home from school and saw it.
“Grannie,” he exclaimed, “tell granddad to stop taking things like that out of our garbage can. It’s embarrassing!”
By the way, thanks to the people, obviously of a better class, who also put the lampshade in our garbage can. And those big plastic containers. One is now our sugar bowl.
Best wishes to the legendary Joe Hoad who’s had a pacemaker installed.
