You know you’ve officially entered the "What The Fiasco" stage of aging when you stop looking at a clock to see the time and start looking at your plastic pill box to see what day it is. "Oh, look, the Tuesday slot is empty. I guess I didn't hallucinate Monday after all."
I’m 63. If this is what 63 looks like—requiring a heating pad and a 15-minute calisthenics routine just to peel myself off the mattress—I am terrified of what 73 has in store. I have zero retirement savings, a future Social Security check that won't cover a high-end LEGO set, and a plan to keep working until I literally drop.
Welcome to the medical side of the Fiasco.
The Root of the Evil: Adult ADD
If my life were a car, Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) is the guy who installed the steering wheel upside down. I didn't even realize I had it until my mid-thirties, but it explains every disaster in my wake:
- The Weight: I’m a professional yo-yo dieter because I have the patience of a caffeinated squirrel.
- The Projects: I’m a world-class daydreamer. I have enough unfinished projects in my head to fill a warehouse, but here I am, just hoping you're still reading this.
- The Consequences: I live "in the moment," which is a fancy way of saying I do stupid things now and let "Future Me" deal with the wreckage. Well, "Future Me" is here now, and he’s ticked off.
The Structural Collapse: Arthritis and Hips
I’ve had back issues since I was 25, but now moderate arthritis has joined the party. It’s a literal pain in the butt. I’m currently navigating the house with a cane, which makes me look distinguished but feels like a fiasco.
My left hip has decided it no longer wants to participate in society. I’ve had to surrender to slip-on shoes, because if a shoe has laces, it’s dead to me. But socks? Socks were a challenge until I invented The Cup & Tong Method™. I fold the sock over the rim of a large plastic cup, slide my foot in, and then use a pair of kitchen tongs to haul it up like I’m retrieving a hot dog from a grill. It’s effective, it’s humiliating, and it’s a total fiasco.
The Pharmacy in a Plastic Box
Between the high blood pressure (fueled by coffee, energy drinks, and my own temper), the heartburn (which Keto helps, if I could focus long enough to buy a steak), and the prostate issues that keep me up all night, I’m rattling when I walk.
I take 7 or 8 pills a day. I think. Honestly, I only remember to refill them when the bottle and the box are both bone-dry. Then it takes me two weeks to actually go get them because... well, refer back to the ADD section. I could do mail-order, but that involves the "Agony of Sal." If Sal gets to the mailbox first and sees a pill bottle, he’ll probably try to "have my back" by testing them for me.
The Health Insurance Horror Show
Getting medical insurance when you’re a freelance delivery driver and a chronic procrastinator is like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall.
Last year, the state deemed me eligible for free medical, dental, and vision. I was thrilled! I ran to Urgent Care for my hip, got my X-rays, and found out I’m a prime candidate for a hip replacement. But before I could even talk to a specialist, the state yanked the rug out.
Insurance: Cancelled. Why? Because apparently, they sent one notice in the mail asking for proof of income, and I missed it. Was it Sal hiding the mail? Was it the State being incompetent? Or was it my ADD turning the envelope into a coaster? Who knows! Now, a year later, I have 60 days to prove I’m poor enough to deserve a new hip. They won’t take bank statements; they want taxes. So now I’m in a dead heat to get my taxes done just so I can walk without a cane.
WHAT THE FIASCO!
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