MY HEALTH

We often hear that it's the underlying conditions that make COVID-19 lethal. A bad heart. Diabetes. Overweight. And on and on. Coronavirus is like water. It will circulate until it finds a low spot in your system and then fill it with infection. If it can't find that leak, it will flow out of you no differently than rainwater cascading off a roof.

What is my Achilles heel?

The answer may lie in my medicine cabinet. I don't have any fixed time that I rise in the morning. In general it varies between eight and ten. It depends on if I took one milligram or two milligrams of alprazolam--the generic for xanax--the previous night. As part of spreading out my consumption of pills, I also take colcrys for gout before hitting the sack. When I rise in the morning I swallow low dosages of levothyroxine and telmisartan, the former for my thyroid and the latter for high-blood pressure.

I am on a steady diet of Metamucil (It ain't no fun defecating steel bars), Pepcid (I eat the wrong foods, which may be the reason for my underlying conditions as well as the ones that haven't been diagnosed.), extra-strength Excedrin (Like alprazolam, I'm addicted to my two daily tablets. Nothing knocks out a headache from a hangover like Excedrin), Aleve (My body aches more and more with each passing day), Sinus Max, Mylanta, NyQuil, Claratin and Tylenol for the various other afflictions that ambush me on a regular basis. It gets to a point that each day presents a mine field that you have to navigate.

I'm a big fans of teas. I savor an occasional cup of coffee, but green tea with caffeine gives me the charge I need, particularly if I'm going to work out with the weights. It is suppose to be helpful with weight loss, but it hasn't been as effective as I would like it to be. That damn belly! I try to limit its expansion as much as possible, but I don't have the discipline to regain the six-pack that I had at 150 pounds. I'm stuck with a keg at 210. Besides green tea, I drink a variety of other teas for anxiety and sleeping: Valerian, Nine Blossoms, Chamomile, Sleepytime Extra, Tila and whatever else my mother-in-law or my fortune teller informs me is a slam-dunk if I want a peaceful and restful night.

Then there is the me on the outside that I have worshiped for more than 69 years, but I'm reaching the point that the body I once loved, I'm beginning to hate. I'm not ready to discard it yet because it is functioning well enough to give me pleasure and it fools blind women, but the time is coming when I will want to escape it like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. As I mentioned, I ache all the time. I can't close my hands without the sensation of stiffness in each joint. I feel like I'm recovering from punching a wall with a closed fist. The condition affects my guitar playing when I form the chords. My tennis game would suffer too, but I haven't been on a court in months.

Beginning at the top of my head and moving south to my feet, the hair grows thin on my pate but thick from my nose, ears and the back of my neck. Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss thought I had a cist on one ear. During an office visit he cut into it only to discover it was a protruding vein; it wouldn't stop bleeding. As a result, I have a red bubble jutting out from my ear. I have a broken nose from my boxing days, but I appreciate it for the character it adds. On the positive side, I am relatively free of wrinkles and I don't suffer from sagging skin. I'm complimented that I don't look my age, but it's my blue eyes that retain their youthful radiance.

From my chin to my ankles, I'm presentable for the most part. My step-daughter, who is in her fourth year of dental school, says I need to check a spot on my left arm midway between my elbow and wrist, which she describes as a basal cell carcinoma. Spending my first 24 years in California's Central Valley and the next 45 in South Texas, I have not protected myself sufficiently from a constant companion--the sun. I'm discovering to my chagrin that I'm not immuned to aged spots. I  shake my head and chuckle. I'm an old shade tree. I'm happy to be alive. I don't want to be another Trump Covid-19 stat. I want to breathe deeply and await each day's adventure for at least one more decade.

Completing the physical trip from top to bottom, I have the fungal infection that affects my toenails. It is disgusting. When I was in Mexico City two years ago, I went a podiatrist who treated them and guaranteed that within three months I could walk barefooted around a swimming pool. She turned out to be a quack. Since I believe my liver is overloaded with my daily consumption of meds and I've heard the cure for this malady can take a heavy toll on one's liver, I arrived at a tidy solution. I went for a pedicure and had the nails returned to their proper shape. I told the pedicurist to paint the nails black. It was an ingenious transformation. I felt a transsexual hipness. My youngest son didn't share the same sentiments, but he is a puppet of high-school peer pressure. I may reinsert my diamond stud earring that I haven't worn in 30 years.

What is the strategy going forward? It has been two years since I've had my complete bloodwork done. Dr. Pangloss fills at least ten vials with blood as he searches for any medical problem that needs to be nipped in the bud. I've had two colonoscopies, but it may be time for a third. There is the basal cell carcinoma that must be checked and I require a chest x-ray; I have a persistent cough. I don't know if it's time for a flu shot and I've been told that I need pneumonia and shingles inoculations again. When I go to the pharmacy to get my xanax fix (For a monthly prescription of 60 milligrams covered by insurance at $2.30, it is a cheap addiction monetarily although I fear the price I may have to pay down the road. However, I refuse to endure any pain at my age.), I'll ask if I'm lacking any injections.

Besides being proactive on the medical front, I have to improve my physical regimen. I have been consistent with the weights. There is a rush after lifting that can last as long as 24 hours. I radiate strength. As I lamented earlier, I have not been playing tennis, staying regular with my Yankee Yoga (sit-ups, push-ups and stretches) and walking (Running is pretty much out of the question. I see joggers keeping a steady pace and I'm jealous. I remember when I could do three miles at a respectable clip. No más). I haven't crossed from downtown Brownsville to Matamoros and bought Viagra in months. Do I need it? I like to think that I'm a solid starting pitcher, but there is nothing wrong with having a dependable reliever in the bullpen who can finish the job if your arm becomes limp and you can't deliver that same fast ball you were firing in the early innings.

With the prospect of COVID-19 lingering for months before we will see a vaccine, the Angel of Death that killed the Egyptian first-borns hovers over us except that he has grown more bloodthirsty since those Old Testament times. Now he isn't content if he isn't taking anyone and everyone. I have a fatalistic attitude. There is a foreboding that I'm not going to escape unscathed. The pandemic lurks everywhere. I'm not stupid like Trump and his hordes of haters who believe that wearing masks encroaches on their Constitutional right to take idiocy to a fatal level, but I sense this monster breathing down my neck and it's only a matter of time. I've told my sons that if I'm intubated, stay the course. But if I start suffering secondary effects as part of a slow breakdown, set me free. I don't want to die before my time, but I don't dread death. It has made life worth living.