We spent some time at the doctor’s office this afternoon after we used the morning practicing singing Cole Porters’ songs from the time Carol and I realized we belonged to the Jazz generation.  At least that generation was in full swing while both of us were classicists because of good teachers and natural dispositions.  But, this is about the visit to our specialist who was checking out Carol’s persistent cough.  The bad part is that it has lingered so long but the good part is that she seems to be better (of course the cough was not heard so much the day before we had our appointment).  The doctor is one of those types who know her sickness specialty and the pros and cons of using the new drugs used to combat breathing problems.  Both Carol and I are her patients so we got the lowdown on new medicines and the proper use of breathing devices and the best times to use them.

At birth there is this outsized doctor, generally referred to as “God” who has assigned us a death date.  Or, at least that is what a great many believers think.  But, our date with death is variable.  Life can be cut short by accident or by murder and, of course, being in the wrong place at the wrong time when the grim reaper comes calling in the guise of an accident or another human who did not value your life and ran right over you.  I believe that there is in us a built in longevity – my generation living longer than my parents and my children having many more years than mine.  We have learned that while we still kill off too many in war that “advances” in medical science have given us more years in which we may wish, because of the ravages we inflict on ourselves, our end will come before the pain becomes too great. Then, too, some pessimists think the present younger generations will have become too fat and lazy as well as avoiding exercise and not taking care of themselves so that medical advances are irrelevant.

Good news from the doctor is much better than the bad – you know, the one who looks at you, shakes his or her head, and says: “Things don’t look too good”.  Or, during the operation before you go under sedation you hear someone in the operating arena saying: “Oops.”  I remember such an incident when my appendix was being removed.  I was in a morphine state of “I don’t care”, when I looked up into the mirror above me and hearing the assisting doctors telling my surgeon to stop telling stories and get on with it. It was then I saw a red slash in the mirror and connected that vision with remembering I was being opened up that the reaction was in my innards rising to exit from my mouth.  The anesthesiologist slapped a mask on my face and started giving me ether and I went under completely. I had a premonition of what a “little” death was like.  I liked our visit to Dr. Miller who obviously knew how to handle our problems and had the expertise to prescribe what was needed.  Hopeful sayings from Doctors are the preferred type.