THE STORY GOES that a concerned female tourist at Paradise Beach once approached Dennis Johnson about the mosquitoes buzzing around.
“Worry not yourself, madam”, explained Johnson, “it’s like this. The male mosquito buzzes but does not sting. The female mosquito stings but makes no noise. So if you hear buzzing, no problem. It’s when you don’t hear anything that you should be worried.”
My friends, you’d be surprised how much of life is like that. Just when all signals suggest everything is hunky-dory and couldn’t be better, “unseen in the background, Fate is quietly slipping the lead into the boxing-glove”, as P.G. Wodehouse would say. Maybe that’s what that “pride goes before a fall” idea in The Bible is about. You feel you’ve got it made, something is going to cut you down to size.
Body blow
Take me. Apart from a body blow in 2011, I’ve had 73 virtually trouble-free years. Goat’s milk and pork, a regular Bajan ham cutter and shark oil for the flu is all it takes, in my opinion. No bad back, arthuritis, diabetus, not a single ache or pain. Sleep like a top, can read or drive without glasses. Better Health Magazine even wanted me on the cover but the fear was, once I showed my 6-pack abs, only the Predator would risk coming behind. A man in shape.
Six-months’ check-up
And the medical fraternity seemed to agree. At every six-months’ check-up, the doc told me: “Keep on doing what yuh doing, Dicky!” At the last one on November 14, he reeled off the blood test results: pressure good, cholesterol shotting, urine clear, “you’re a remarkably healthy man”. Those were his exact words.
Then he added, “but based on your PSA reading, I want you to see a urologist”. Wham! The lead was well and truly in the boxing glove.
The actual procedure isn’t anything big. They put you in an obscene gown like Caesar, make you lie on your side with knees up to your chest. Scientists say we in Barbados have the smallest snake in the world. Looking down, I could well believe them.
Helpful hint here: after lying there a while, I realised that, while my thing was in front, my parts were behind. Something like a boar pig, only less impressive. A deft lift of the leg and subtle repositioning soon put things to right. You don’t want the doctor and nurse laughing behind there.
Lord have mercy! If that probe is indeed the size of a finger, I take off my hat to those fellows who endure much larger intrusions on a regular basis. And if, as is mooted on the blogs, Mia may get a safe seat for her most avid political scientist fan, I want one too: concrete bottom, back and sides.
Conked out
Afterwards, things went rapidly downhill. I conked out as is my wont in medical situations and awoke the hear the doctor saying: “He’s oxygenating”, which I took to mean, “is still alive”.
So we’re awaiting results and prepared for the worst. One friend told me a faulty PSA test set his father on the path to death from worry. He himself would never take one. Phillip Goddard mentioned a former schoolmate with a similar problem. “The doctor gave him three months to live. He lived for two years.”
Which seems kind of inconsiderate. Then I heard of another fellow whom the doctor gave six months to live. However, when he didn’t get through paying his bill in that time, the doc gave him another six.
I’ve had a damn good life, music, the best wife ever, children and grands who treat me like royalty. I’ve proved there’s good money in agriculture and even in recycling garbage in the paper every Friday. What more could I ask?
Good choices
Now it’s time to explore options on the other side. My friend Archie wants to come back as a bedbug to “bite the young ladies, partner!” On the other hand, the donkey is king of the beasts for good reason; the boar pig’s orgasms last half-hour; while clams can live up to 500 years “and remain sexually active all that time”. All good choices.
Or will I roam as a duppy and maybe get to hear Veoma sing in the bath? I wouldn’t peep. Honest. I’m too much a gentleman for that.
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email porkhoad@gmail.com
