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 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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My New "Home": Where Dreams Go to Die (and Rent is Dirt Cheap)

I found this "room for rent" on the internet, which is a lot like finding a gourmet meal in a dumpster—the description promised filet mignon, but my eyeballs immediately detected soggy socks. Of course, the sheer, glaring, structural, and existential faults of the house only became apparent after I had already signed the lease and was committed to a life of low-grade peril.

The place is an "Spooky Looking Old Victorian," which is a fancy way of saying a giant, three-story, drafty coffin with a terrifyingly ancient fire escape bolted to the back, probably just waiting for its moment to spontaneously detach. The siding is a magnificent tapestry of half-hearted DIY repairs, looking less like a home and more like a fever dream stitched together by a very tired squirrel. It sits on a corner lot, mercifully shrouded from the judgmental gaze of its neighbors by a pathetic chainlink fence and a truly dedicated effort of overgrown bushes. That’s right, the house needs shrubbery to actively hide its shame.

I bravely navigated the gate and the long, suspicious walkway to the front door for my appointment with the landlord. The door itself was an ancient, grimy relic secured by a modern combination lock, which is exactly the kind of jarring, nonsensical contrast that defines this whole property. I knocked. Nothing. I could hear distinct human noises inside—like the faint sound of souls being mildly inconvenienced—but no answer. I knocked again, getting the same passive-aggressive silence. I checked my phone, texted the landlord (a beacon of futility), and then, with the sheer audacity of a desperate person, I knocked one more time, with the added thump of genuine annoyance.

The door was then ripped open by a genuinely scary big older black man with a magnificent gray mane, sporting a crisp, white, sleeveless tee—a sartorial choice that somehow managed to scream, "I haven't been happy since 1987."

"Yer what you want!" he bellowed, perfectly capturing the essence of a man whose day was already a masterpiece of misery. "I'm here to rent the room," I managed to squeak. "So call the Landlord!" And with the speed and finality of a guillotine, he slammed the door shut.

That, right there, was my sign. My glorious, flashing, neon-lit, heavenly choir-singing sign that I should have executed a perfect 180 and never looked back. But alas, I am a creature driven by the two most powerful forces in the universe: poverty and desperation.

Just then, my savior/tormentor, the landlord, appeared. He punched the magical code into the grimy lock and ushered us into the abode. Inside, it looked "normal enough," which in this context means "not actively on fire." He revealed the charming details: 20 rooms, all men. It’s less a house and more a highly pressurized man-can. The bathroom situation is a delightful game of musical chairs: two full baths (with showers, praise be) on the first floor, and two half-baths on the second. The third floor, apparently, has been designated a pee-free zone by decree.

The ground floor features a "kitchen" that appears to have been designed by someone whose concept of cooking involves staring wistfully at a stove. It has a full fridge, a sink, and a stove, but a generous one foot of counter space—just enough room to perfectly balance a single teaspoon of existential dread.

My humble quarters were on the first floor, conveniently located directly in front of the stately, yet probably creaky, Victorian staircase. The landlord proudly informed me it was the biggest room in the house. At 11 x 14, it was "okay," furnished with a bed, dresser, and an "EZ chair" all conveniently provided by the last tenant (who probably fled in the middle of the night, leaving only their furniture and a faint scent of regret).

Considering the price was a blissful one-third of what any sad, boxy studio apartment was going for, I decided that a life of shared bathrooms, zero counter space, and being regularly yelled at by a shirtless man was a steal.

I jumped on it. Because apparently, I have a Ph.D. in making terrible life choices. 

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