My Pill Box is My Calendar: The Daily Health Fiasco

​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. Hu

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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The Zoo Keepers, The Slackers, and The Dead: Meet the Men of the Fiasco House

 

​Welcome to the ultimate reality show: My house. We're an eclectic community of 20 Older Men, living together in what the city euphemistically calls "Affordable Senior Housing." If you were casting a show called The Last Stand of the Slightly Grumpy, this would be your setting.

​Some of us are trying to enjoy retirement (I assume), others are still grinding away, and a few are hanging onto public assistance by the skin of their teeth, praying the landlord doesn't remember their last name. It's high-stakes senior living with a daily dose of high-octane drama.

​🚗 The Great Transportation Gauntlet (or, Why I Charge Tolls)

​If you still have working wheels—even just a slightly deflated bicycle—your options in this world are vast. But for those facing mobility issues? Their life is a costly, inconvenient slog. It's all expensive Ubers (which, let's be honest, they shouldn't be spending their fixed income on) or the begrudged generosity of neighbors.

​I can't even count the number of free rides I've given—and I regret every single one. Especially the one time I drove Davy. The car still smells like a forgotten attic and a stale pack of Chesterfields. I swear I saw the paint peeling off the interior.

​🛋️ The House Heroes and Homebodies (The Unstoppable Force of Laziness)

​Big Earl (The Cable King): Complains about his bad back 24/7, which is a shocker, as his job consists entirely of guarding the remote control. No wonder he needs senior grocery delivery; the journey from the couch to the fridge is his Mount Everest.

​Davy (The Social Worker's Best Friend): Our champion homebody. His personal hygiene is so legendary, only brand-new Uber drivers will risk picking him up. Word is, if his Social Security check dried up, he'd be the guy playing guitar in the subway tunnel. (The betting pool is currently open.)

​Lenny (The Biking Gourmet): Our local hardware store lackey. Lenny commutes on a bike—a fact that is instantly undone when he gets home and settles in with a six-pack for dinner. With his two surviving teeth, he’s in desperate need of a senior dental plan (or a heavy-duty food processor).

​🩺 Health Scares and Scars (The Fiascos That Get You Hospital Food)

​Carter (The Scooter Commuter): Gets everywhere on his electric scooter, blazing past the two guys who are still brave enough to take the main stairs (a FIASCO waiting to happen). His chest scar from open-heart surgery is a terrifying badge of honor—at least it finally scared him into quitting the smokes.

​Tommy (The Mumbling Mystery): Post-stroke and constantly deciphering anything Tommy says is a high-level diplomatic mission. If it weren't for Dick driving his sorry butt around, his elderly care situation would be the next Netflix true crime docuseries.

​Sal (The Hip-Breaker): His legendary, late-night fall (a broken hip, naturally) was the most exciting thing to happen here since the last time the fire alarm went off. He came back from rehab a 30-pound lighter shell of a man (zero smoking or drinking allowed—the inhumanity!). Now hobbling with a cane (or sometimes a broom handle), he still manages to orchestrate weekly cigarette and beer runs. A true survivor—and a true pain.

​In total, 25% of us require some sort of walking aid. And yes, a week after I moved in, some poor soul died in his sleep. I could go on, and on, and on, but if you’re anything like me, your Attention Deficit Disorder is screaming that this post is getting criminally long-winded.

​So, let's grab a coffee.  I'll continue this incredible story next time... after I find where I set my keys.

​TO BE CONTINUED......

​WTF: WHAT THE FIASCO

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🛒 The Day My Impulse Button Fired: Fired, Fired, and Fired

 

For most of my life, I toiled in the majestic arena of retail. Before I landed here in the WTF: What The Fiasco headquarters following the end of my 30-year marriage, I was a glamorous sales merchandiser for a major food manufacturer. It wasn't a bad gig: I got to travel to over 50 different stores, each one a unique ecosystem of baffling management and baffling customers. Fifty stores, fifty bosses—because every single store manager expected me to dedicate my life to their two hours a week of service, instantly ignoring the 49 other stores I serviced and the one actual boss I answered to. Needless to say, the relationship between vendor and manager was less a partnership and more a simmering, mutual hatred.

I’d clocked decades of wear and tear, accumulating a delightful collection of back and knee pains. But thanks to my trusty A.D.D., if a problem isn't loudly screaming in my face, it can wait indefinitely!  So, I worked through the pain, prioritizing tasks like making sure the chips were stacked just right, and ignoring the structural decay in my joints.

The Backroom Brawl

My actual boss was no help; he lived by the ancient, insane creed that the customer is always right, even when they are demonstrably, undeniably wrong. This setup was a constant trigger for my impulsive, short-tempered personality.

The final, glorious straw snapped one day as I was trying to haul merchandise through a particularly messy backroom. The scene was less a functional stock area and more a crowded nightclub filled with department managers and associates doing absolutely nothing but chatting. My frustration boiled over. Words were exchanged (loudly, impulsively, regretfully). Before I could even finish my outburst, the store manager—a man whose patience was clearly rated lower than the structural integrity of this Victorian house—threw me out.

The Impulsive Abyss

Normally, my boss would simply transfer me to a different store. But my Attention Deficit Disorder decided to check out. Having dealt with this exact flavor of petty annoyance for the thousandth time, I just snapped. I walked out and quit my job. Without thinking! The fact that I was already on A.D.D. and anti-depression meds, and I might have missed my morning dose, probably amplified the explosion. This wasn't just impulsive; this was the final, nuclear-grade straw.

At the time, I foolishly thought, Eh, I have enough cash until the next gig. I didn't care about unemployment. What I absolutely failed to consider were my benefits, specifically my precious Medical Insurance.

What I didn't also realize until it was too late was I was 60 years old, and the retail world was no longer interested in hiring me. So, here I am, self-employed as an independent personal shopper (Instacart, Shipt, the works)—a true digital-age Fiasco.

WTF: The Health Crisis

Now, the real terror begins. I'm too young for Medicare, but old enough that I’m one sneeze away from a catastrophic medical bill. Do I have to take early Social Security just to cover a decent health plan? Do I qualify for the dreaded Medicaid bureaucracy? What the Fiasco!

Remember me saying, "I have had my share of back and knee pains... With my A.D.D., if it's not in my face important it can wait."

WELL, IT'S IN MY FACE NOW!

It's in my neck, my knees, my back, and my hips! I didn't just go over the hill at age 60; I fell off the cliff that was hiding over that hill, without a net or medical insurance! At 63, my body is officially staging a coup.

WTF: WHAT THE FIASCO!

Next week, we'll dive into the ailments going around this house and my misadventures in trying to get and afford health insurance before time runs out—the ultimate Fiasco.

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The Origin Story: How I Became a Fiasco

ADD A WTF MOMENT

​You go through life assuming your default setting is, well, normal. You figure being grumpy, scatter-brained, and one impulsive decision away from disaster is just... "who you are." You think, "I'm 35, overweight, and I can't find my keys, but hey, at least I’m authentic!" Then, one night, the universe steps in and throws a lamp at your head.

​For me, the thunderbolt of self-awareness arrived roughly 30 years ago, via an episode of Barbara Walters’ 20/20. I urge you, if you have access to the archives of confusing evening news television, look it up. It featured a guy my age, mid-thirties, who was essentially my personality twin:

​Grumpy: Check.

​Short-tempered: Double check.

​Impulsive: My middle name.

​Overweight: The universe gives you what you need.

​Day Dreamer: Currently mapping out a fully organized pantry in my head.

​Below-average student: Why study when you can daydream?

​Unorganized: My filing system is called "The Pile."

​The punchline? The guy was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.)—as an adult. I stared at the screen, jaw hanging, and screamed, “THAT’S ME! I’M NOT JUST A LUNATIC, I HAVE A REASON!”

​Naturally, my family reacted by doing what they do best: confirming I was a lunatic and ignoring me.

​I bring this up now, not for a pity party, but so you understand the underlying structural integrity (or lack thereof) of the mind that brought you here. The reason my life—and by extension, my living situation—escalated into a permanent state of What The Fiasco is rooted right here.

​A.D.D. is slightly different from A.D.H.D. I don’t jump noticeably up and down (I’m too tired for that); I just have the same scattered hard drive. It’s not a "child's disease," it’s a lifelong feature. Some people manage it by self-medicating—you know them as the guys chugging energy drinks, chain-smoking, or turning to... less legal remedies to quiet the noise. 

Others, like me for a long time, just pretend their chaos is a personality quirk. Billy Joel even wrote a soundtrack for it—that song about the "Angry Young Man" wasn't just catchy, it was autobiographical for half the population.

​If it seems like I’m constantly changing the subject, interrupting myself mid-sentence, or just generally making you feel seasick with my jumpy focus, well, there's your answer! That's my A.D.D. hitting the send button before the thought is complete.

Donald Trump is a classic example!   Hmm, did I say that?

​I’d love to elaborate, but as you know, that would derail the entire theme of the blog. Maybe when I run out of new fiascos involving Sal’s mail and Davy’s stench, I’ll write the prequel about my life before the age of 60.

​WHAT THE FIASCO!

Oh yeah by the way did I mention my name?  I'm Alan!

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