Medicine

A Choice Story

Yeah, Another Blogger118 Comments

In May of this year, Apple Music sent me an email that offered three months of their service for free. Considering that up until about 15 years ago I was a full-fledged music junkie, and that I’m still a major lover of music, it’s kind of surprising I wasn’t already enrolled in Apple Music or in one of its music-streaming peers, such as Spotify. Anyway, I hemmed and hawed for several weeks, eventually accepting the offer. Man, I’m close to ecstatic that I signed up. It blows my foggy mind that residing within my phone’s Apple Music app are countless thousands of albums, many of which I became intimately familiar with during the approximately 45 years that comprised my music-junkie era (I own circa 1,200 physical albums and used to attend concerts right and left). And as for the incredible number I was unfamiliar with but was interested in checking out, well, I’ve made a slight dent in that mountain. New-to-me albums by some of my very favorite artists (Sun Ra, Howlin’ Wolf, Bruce Springsteen and Ella Fitzgerald, to name but a few) and by at least 100 other artists have reached my ears thanks to Apple Music. I’ve been in music heaven the past two months, and possibly am on my way to becoming a long-term junkie again. There would be worse fates than that.

Yet, I have to say it almost seems wrong to have such an overwhelming amount of musical choice a mere handful of taps away. I mean, do I, or does anyone, deserve such unimaginable bounty? Am I, or is anyone, that entitled? I suppose those questions are moot. After all, billions of people own smartphones, laptops, etc., and each of those devices easily can access near-infinite amounts of content on any subject under the Sun. That’s where we are in the 21st century. It’s the new reality, something we usually or always take for granted. The digital world is a wonder of the highest order (though not always in good ways), and it is ever-expanding.

Which leads me to another corner of the streaming universe, that which supplies humanity with more series and movies than a person could consume in 1,000 lifetimes. So many choices! Most evenings, my wife Sandy and I click onto a streamer and watch a series for an hour or two. We’ve breezed through 27 series so far this year. I’ll briefly mention two I enjoyed immensely: The Residence, a whimsical, sprightly murder mystery set in the White House in Washington D.C., and The Pitt, a drama that follows a harrowing 15-hour shift in the emergency room of a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania hospital. The Pitt contains more than a couple of graphic, bloody scenes, I should note. To my amazement, I didn’t close my eyes during them. Shit, I think that means I should go to medical school! If I start next year, I’ll become a licensed physician at age 84 or 85. What, you wouldn’t want an octogenarian diagnosing and treating you? I’m offended! By the way, you’ll find The Residence on Netflix, and The Pitt on HBO Max.

Last week, while I waited at an auto service center where my car was undergoing an oil change and safety inspection, Apple Music once again proved its amazingness to me. Nestled in a lounge area, I read a text message my brother Richie had sent to me regarding Terry Reid, a British rocker who passed away on August 4th at age 75. Richie mentioned that Reid was an opening act at a Rolling Stones concert he and I attended (at New York City’s Madison Square Garden) in November 1969. I have no recollection of Reid’s performance. And I have only partial memories of The Stones’ work.

Fortunately, recordings of The Stones from the show we were at, and from three other Stones concerts that November, appear on a classic Stones album, Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! I hadn’t heard the record in eons. Listening to it was the obvious choice for me to make. So, I tapped on my phone’s Apple Music app for a few seconds and — voila! — the album presented itself to me. I sat back and, via earbuds, listened all the way through. It’s a beauty.

It wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to conclude this piece with one of the tracks from Ya-Ya’s, right? I’ll go with Street Fighting Man. I’m a big fan of hard rock, as long as the songs are top-notch and the musicians are wailing like nobody’s business. This recording meets my criteria.

I Am Extremely Fortunate

Yeah, Another Blogger180 Comments

Last Monday, the first day of the second half of rapidly disappearing 2025, found me at the medical office building where I’ve volunteered for 13 years, manning its information desk. The part-time gig keeps me on my toes. Many patients arrive without knowing which suite their doctor works in, for instance. It’s my job to point them in the right direction. And sometimes I come to peoples’ “rescue,” such as when I aid those who, their medical appointments completed, can’t remember where in the nearby parking garage they deposited their cars. Off I go with them to that multi-level structure to solve the problem.

I like the job, which occupies me for four hours each week. Without it, I’d have a relative paucity of human interactions, seeing that I spend a hefty percentage of my time resting my aged, bony ass upon the living room sofa. Plus, helping people out boosts my spirits. Basically, I need to feel as though I’ve still got something to offer society.

Last Monday was a typical day at work. I answered questions from, and helped unravel somewhat-knotty situations for, approximately 50 individuals. However, during my shift something struck me more than it usually does: I clearly realized that a whole lot of visitors to the building were using and relying on canes, walkers and wheelchairs. And nowhere near all of those folks were senior citizens. This was a sobering observation. It brought to the surface a piece of self-knowledge that normally resides in the bottom reaches of my subconscious. Namely, I am extremely fortunate. Here I am, pushing age 80, and I get around on my legs just fine. I can walk for five or more miles, no problem. And though it would be foolhardy of me to attempt an all-out sprint, trotting remains within my powers. Yeah, anything might yet happen, but I’ve retained more than decent mobility.

And my good fortune extends way beyond my legs. My health in general, according to medical tests and my physicians, is solid. I’ve had one very dangerous health situation in my life. Thanks to modern medicine and just plain positive luck, it appears to be permanently confined to the rearview mirror. Of course, nobody knows that for certain, but the odds are in my favor.

What’s more, I have plenty to eat, and my country (the USA), though in the hands of a freedoms-suppressing megalomaniac, is not a war zone. I almost feel guilty about my good fortune, considering how difficult so many people have it in the States and all around the world. Poor health, poor healthcare availability, and inadequate food intake are some of the injustices plaguing hundreds of millions of individuals. And armed conflicts make life a living hell, or close to it, for so, so many. Not just in Ukraine and Gaza, but in violence-beset nations that don’t receive much media attention. Haiti and Sudan, to name two, and Myanmar and Yemen, to name two more.

Yes, the human condition, in certain respects, is horrible. Always has been. Always will be.

Considerate guy that I occasionally am, I’ll leave you on a sunny note: My good fortune expanded at the tail end of last year when I discovered Abigail Lapell. She’s a fine Canadian singer-songwriter who isn’t too well known outside her home country. Her latest album, Anniversary, came out 16 months ago. I’m in love with one of its songs, Flowers In My Hair, which is the first song in many a moon that I can’t (and don’t want to) get out of my head.  A meditation on going with the flow while letting love reign over you, it is dominated by angelic vocals and by mesmerizing percussion provided via handclaps and foot stomps. Flowers In My Hair, to me, is sweet as a peach and free as a bird. Give it a listen.

Dr. R. U. Forereel Reaches For The Light

Yeah, Another Blogger119 Comments

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Neil ‘I’ve got major problems’ Scheinin,” my psychiatrist Dr. R.U. Forereel said quietly, her gaze fixed on me like a big-game hunter, when I entered her office for my monthly session last week.

Her words stopped me in my tracks.

“What? Did I hear you correctly, doctor? How dare you talk to me like that!”

“Oh, calm down. Have a seat, Neil. I was just kidding around. My, you have a thin hide.”

Keeping my ears wide open lest any further barbs be projected at me, I slowly approached the patient’s chair and then eased my way onto it.

“Yikes!” I yelled, as my highly bony ass made contact with the chair’s rigid cushion. “Dr. Forereel, you need to replace this piece of crap masquerading as furniture. Its seat is as hard as a frigging rock. I’ve never been comfortable on it, and now less than ever, given my aging butt’s deteriorating condition. Maybe that’s why I’ve made minimal sustained progress over the many years you’ve been treating me.”

“Point taken, Neil. Rest assured that a chair deserving of your continued presence will greet you next month. You are, after all, one of my favorite patients. Which really isn’t saying much, though, considering the competition you’re up against.”

“Doctor, I’m shocked to hear you badmouth your other patients,” I said. “You’ve never done that before. Are you having a bad day?”

My question caused Dr. Forereel’s stern demeanor to change immediately. “Neil, I’m not sure I ever have a good day,” she said, her eyes awash with vulnerability. “And that’s been especially true for the past two weeks. You see, I feel I must end my relationship with Tom, the fine man who, because of you, entered my life last year.”

Her comment about my close friend Tom completely took me by surprise, as Tom has nothing but wonderful things to say about Dr. Forereel whenever I speak with him. He moved in with my psychiatrist only weeks after he first asked her out, and as far as he is concerned everything between them has progressed swimmingly.

“End the relationship? Why, doctor?”

“I know, on the surface it makes little sense. Tom is sweet as peach pie. He’s caring and intelligent. But he’s driving me crazy, though I, of course, have kept this hidden from him. For instance, Tom clears his throat vigorously, as if he’s starting up an outboard motor, whenever he’s about to start speaking to me — VRROOMM! I can’t stand that. And he never takes off his baseball cap, even when we’re making love. All he’ll do on those occasions is turn it backwards on his head so that the bill doesn’t poke me in the face or in my private parts. That’s considerate of him, true, but I imagine he wears the cap in bed because he likes to think of himself as a talented athlete. In truth, however, he isn’t exactly carrying heavy lumber, if you get my drift.”

“Ouch, too much information!” I responded. “Look, you can’t have everything. Surely, doctor, there has to be a way for you to focus on, and appreciate, the bigger picture. I believe it would be a major mistake for you to send Tom packing. You might never again find a man to share your life with.”

“Sadly, I cannot disagree. I’m well into my middle years, yet Tom is the first man I’ve lived with. I suppose I’m not cut out for a partnership . . . Wait! I just thought of something. The Journal Of Seemingly Lost Causes ran a fascinating article not long ago. It’s about the therapeutic techniques designed by Dr. Ican Fixit. The results from Dr. Fixit’s program, though preliminary, are extraordinary. His basic approach is to put his patients into deep hypnotic states and then scream at them, ‘You think you‘ve got problems? Believe me, they are nothing compared to mine, so wise up already!'”

“Neil,” my doctor continued, “Dr. Fixit repeats this procedure every day for a month. By then, success in most cases is achieved. There’s no time for me to lose. I will contact him and enroll in his program. When I complete it, there will be a new version of me — more tolerant, less prickly. I’ll embrace and be amused by all of Tom’s peculiarities. And my psychiatric abilities undoubtedly will rise to heights even Freud could not have imagined, which means that possibly you’ll finally start showing some lasting improvement. Let’s hope so. You’ve certainly got a long, long way to go.”

What’s Up, Doc?

Yeah, Another Blogger133 Comments

“Why, if it isn’t my favorite patient,” said Dr. R. U. Forereel, a not unsubtle note of sarcasm in her voice, when I entered her office last week for my monthly psychiatric session. “Have a seat, Neil. Which of your numerous problems would you like to discuss today?”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I want to talk about my recent difficulties with writing,” I said as I sat myself down in the patient chair. “I’m sure you remember that I’ve been turning out articles since 2015 for my website Yeah, Another Blogger.”

Dr. Forereel made no attempt to turn her head away from me as she rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me? Of course I know about Yeah, Another Blogger. How could I not know, considering that you mention it every damn time I see you? Okay, tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Doctor, it’s never been a snap for me to come up with story ideas and develop them into written pieces. But the last couple of weeks have been terrible. I mean, I’ve been stuck in traffic, going nowhere, paddling against the current . . . ”

Dr. Forereel cut me off. “Enough with the clichés already. I get it! You have writer’s block, right?”

“Bingo,” I said.

Dr. Forereel paused for a long moment, playing with the several chin hairs that she’d have done well to dispose of at home. Then she began to talk again.

“Neil, I’m in the process of writing my memoirs, as you know. I have you to thank for that, needless to say. I’ve plugged away at the book religiously every night after work for the last seven months, and on weekends too, with remarkable results. No writer’s block for me. Last night I completed the section about my life at age four, the age at which it became apparent to one and all, including me, that I was not a people person. That personality trait has continued to this day, by the way.”

“What?” I yelled. “After hundreds and hundreds of hours of work you’re only up to age four? At this rate you won’t finish the book for another 25 years! And if you’re not a people person, then why in the world did you pursue psychiatry?”

“Neil, the world will welcome my autobiography no matter when it is published. Of that I’m certain. And, to answer your question, a central message of the book, one that millions of people will take heart from, will be this: It’s absolutely fine to be ill-suited for one’s profession. Why waste time trying out different occupations, hoping and praying that one of them will prove to be a wonderful fit? Just grab indiscriminately at something, put your nose to the grindstone and get on with it. Whatever that it might be. Don’t you agree?”

I was dumbfounded. Which didn’t stop me from cobbling together a response. “You’ve just proven to me that you’re a remarkable theorist, doctor,” I said. “What’s more, a bad match though you might be for psychiatry, you are a wonder-worker too. Where would I, and who knows how many others, be without you? You have illuminated a few of the dark recesses of my mind over the years. Not that I feel any better as a result of that, but at least I have more to talk about with people than I used to. For that, I’m eternally in your debt.”

“So glad to be and to have been of service. You won’t mind, I hope, if I mention you by name in my memoirs?”

“Certainly not. Especially since it seems I’ll be long gone or too old to care by the time your book hits the market. You know, I must say today’s session has been unusually enlivening and enlightening, so much so that I feel the need to write up an account of what you and I have discussed this afternoon. I am totally confident that writer’s block will not be an issue. And then, with your permission, naturally, I’ll publish the story on my blog.”

“You have my blessings,” my doctor said. “After all, your previous descriptions of our encounters brought me a substantial number of new patients. They’d never have known I existed had it not been for you.”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” I replied. “And I barely can wait to get back home and put my fingers on my computer’s keyboard. Because of you, doctor, Yeah, Another Blogger will live to see another day!”

Call Me “Mister Helpful”

Yeah, Another Blogger139 Comments

My most recent monthly session with my psychiatrist was a most unusual one, because Dr. R. U. Forereel opened up to me rather than the other way around.

“Have a seat, Neil,” Dr. Forereel said quietly when I entered her office, a small room whose every aspect is as stylish and welcoming as can be. I obeyed, placing my bony ass on the comfortable patient’s chair. It faced its clone, occupied by the good doctor, from a distance of five feet.

“Neil,” she continued, an unmistakable tone of dejection in her voice, “I’m in the midst of an existential crisis, one so powerful I can’t escape its clutches. I want to be totally upfront with you right now. Here’s the bottom line: My condition is interfering with my ability to do my job. Which is why I suspect that you won’t make much progress at today’s session. Not that you’ve progressed very far at all during the many years you’ve been seeing me.”

“That’s not true, Dr. Forereel,” I replied. “You’ve enabled me to understand more accurately and fully who I am. Your insights have helped me come to grips with the fact that, basically, I’m just the most average of Joes, making my way haphazardly and erratically through this earthly realm. Why, without you I’d still be reaching for the stars, getting disappointed right and left when things didn’t work out. As a result, doctor, you’ve turned me into a fairly happy individual. I am in your debt!”

“That’s so kind of you to say, Neil. I wish I could share your opinion of my talents, but I’m afraid that my existential crisis won’t allow me to feel joy.”

“There, you’ve said it again. What the hell is an existential crisis, doctor?”

“Well, my problems are deep-rooted, Neil. You see, I’m ill-fitted to be a psychiatrist. Far too often I’m unsympathetic and, undoubtedly, prickly. If I were of the male gender, it wouldn’t be incorrect to describe me not only as prickly but as a prick too. In any case, my soul is roiling and troubled. Neil, I question the whys and wherefores of my existence.” She paused. “I hope I’ve answered your question adequately,” she then said.

“Yes, doctor, you have. Oy frigging vey! You’re in bad shape. But I’ll try to help, even though help isn’t exactly my middle name. The last time I provided assistance to anyone was 60 years ago, when, despite her vehement protests, I carried a little old lady across a small puddle in the middle of the road. I ended up in juvenile court for that attempt at doing a good deed. Lesson learned!”

“Well, in that case I won’t say that I’m in good hands, Neil. But I am interested in what actions you might be proposing.”

“Doctor, I have a website called Yeah, Another Blogger. That’s where I’ve published the various articles I’ve written over the last seven years. You know about this, I believe.”

“Of course I do! You bring up this boring topic every damn time I see you.”

“My bad, doctor. But here’s what I’m getting at: My advice to you is to take up writing, just as I did. You should aim to go farther than me, however. In other words, you should write a book, a memoir of the journey that led you to become the wonderful psychiatrist that you are. If you do, I guarantee you’ll recognize and take comfort from the fact that you’ve guided countless people to better mental and emotional health.”

Dr. Forereel sat silently for many a second, mulling over my comments. Finally, and most energetically, she spoke.

“Neil, this is a genius idea! Yes, yes, yes! I will tell my story, and the world will listen and learn. And, just as important, I will learn too. Thank you so much. I’ll begin writing when I arrive home tonight. I’m sure I’ll need an editor, though. Is there anyone you might recommend?”

“Edgar Reewright is your man, doctor,” I replied without hesitation. “He has edited my pieces right from the start. Maybe we should call him and feel him out.”

Doctor Forereel nodded enthusiastically, so I dialed Edgar’s number and put the phone on speaker.

“What the hell do you want, Neil?” Edgar shouted. “I’m in the middle of looking over the story you sent to me yesterday. Per usual, it blows.”

“Listen up, Edgar,” I said, ignoring his insult. “I’m with my psychiatrist, Dr. R. U. Forereel. She plans to write a memoir and wants to know if you’d edit the book for her.”

“Isn’t she the doctor whose office decor was voted best in the nation by the American Psychiatric Association this year?” Edgar asked.

At that, Dr. Forereel jumped right in. “Hello, Edgar! Dr. Forereel here. I’m impressed that you’re aware of the prestigious award I won from the APA. I’d be honored if you’d edit my book. I have so much to say and to reveal. Millions of people will take heart from my inspirational tale. Oh my, I’m feeling confident and purposeful once again. Please be my editor, Edgar!”

Edgar, undoubtedly envisioning a handsome commission, wasted no time in agreeing to the proposal. He chitchatted with Dr. Forereel for a while and then ended the call, promising to contact her soon to work out all the details. A few minutes later, my session having reached its conclusion, I rose from the patient’s chair.

“You are a lifesaver, a gift from above,” said Dr. Forereel as she ushered me to the door. “Thank you, Neil, thank you! To show my gratitude, your next five years of therapy, starting today, will be cost-free.”

“Doctor, I hope that I won’t need anything close to five more years of therapy. I’m doing so well, after all.”

“That’s what you think,” my doctor said. “But, alas, you’re wrong. Very, very wrong. I promise that I’ll continue doing my utmost to try and help you see things more clearly.”

Shit!

My Lips Are Sealed!

Yeah, Another Blogger114 Comments

Like all good citizens, I believe in heaping praise on those who deserve it. That’s why I’m giving a real big shout-out right now to my perceptive editor, the one and only Edgar Reewright. When it comes to the writing game, I’d be lost without him. Edgar watches out for me and tries to keep me on course. Thank you, Edgar!

Edgar demonstrated his concern very recently. Last week, in fact, when I sent him, via email, a book review I’d just written that I was convinced would be a worthy addition to Yeah, Another Blogger. Twenty seconds later he called me.

“Neil, you’re out of your f*cking mind!” he said before I could say hello. “You can’t publish this piece. A few glances at it showed me that you’d be making a huge mistake if you did. You know why? It’s because you’re taking on a subject that’s totally uncharacteristic of and inappropriate for your publication.”

“Listen,” he continued, “you have a cultured, discerning audience. None of your readers would want to read your review of Nomore Limpdikk’s book Getting Hard The Aztec Way. Sure, this might be Limpdikk’s masterwork, like I think you remarked in the review, and undoubtedly it is a valuable addition to the scientific literature about erectile dysfunction. But you should stick with your flimsy pieces about the walks you take, the music you listen to, blah, blah, blah. Your readers seem to enjoy that sort of stuff, so give them what they’re used to, for crying out loud! Why is erectile dysfunction on your mind, anyway? Do you have a problem?”

“Who, me? Edgar, I’m as powerful as a bull, I’ll have you know. Or maybe not, but none of that is any of your damn business! On the other hand, you should be aware that your business is all over town. I’ve heard it through more than one grapevine that your bedroom performances, are, shall we say, lacking.”

There was a long pause before Edgar responded. He broke the silence by calling to his wife, Loretta, asking her to come upstairs and join him in his home office. I heard her footsteps growing nearer.

“Yes, dear?” she asked.

“Sweetie pie,” Edgar said to her, “I have it on good authority that the situation involving my once-mighty sword has become the talk of the town. Who have you been blabbing to? Your mother? Your loose-lipped girlfriends? Loretta, I can’t believe that you’d do this to me.”

“What are you saying, Edgar?” Loretta answered. “I never talk to anyone about our sex life. You know as well as I do, though, that you can’t keep your mouth shut when you have your goofy friends over to play pinochle. So, one of those guys must have spread the word. Maybe more than one of them.” Receding footsteps then told me that she was leaving the room.

“Edgar, are you there?” I asked ten seconds later.

“I’m here. I’m here,” he said. “But I don’t know what to do. Neil, I think I need your help.”

“Edgar, help is my middle name. It’s a good thing that I read Getting Hard The Aztec Way, because it contains information that will solve your problem. Nomore Limpdikk is a brilliant man, a researcher non pareil. If you’d done more than glance at my review, you would understand that. How is it that nobody over the last 500 years, before Nomore investigated the subject, knew that performance-challenged male Aztecs ate the leaves of the bonerium cactus in order to remedy their sexual deficiencies? The leaves contain chemicals that take effect almost instantly, and the results are startlingly good. Why, Nomore Limpdikk proves that today’s ED pills, such as Viagra, are pitiful compared to the wondrous bonerium.”

“Neil, I’m flabbergasted. And I’m relieved to learn that better days for myself are a real possibility. I’ve tried Viagra, you see, but I’m the one-in-a-million male that it has absolutely no effect upon. Bonerium cactus leaves are what I need! Where do I get them?”

“Edgar, they are hard to come by, because nobody is cultivating them commercially. Not yet. But they can be found here and there in the Mexican deserts that the Aztecs once occupied, Nomore says. And, as luck would have it, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. Well, you get the picture. Within a week a shipment of the magic leaves will arrive at your doorstep.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Neil. This is the greatest favor that anyone has done for me since my third ex-wife, as part of our divorce settlement, agreed to let me keep our collection of pet rocks. I’m going to repay you by waiving my editor’s fee for the next two years. Thank you again. And please promise me two things. First, that you won’t publish an article about erectile dysfunction.”

“I promise,” I said.

“Good. And second, that you won’t mention our conversation to anybody.”

“Edgar, my lips are sealed!”

Time Flies!

Yeah, Another Blogger133 Comments

“Doctor, you’ll be pleased to know that I don’t have any major problems to discuss with you today,” I said to my psychiatrist, Dr. R. U. Forereel, at the start of our most recent monthly session. “But there definitely is something that’s perplexing me.”

“Neil, I’m happy that you’ll be taking it easy on me,” she replied. “I’ve had a rough week, what with patient after patient yapping away about their lives, complaining about this, that and the other thing. What is wrong with these people anyway? I’m sure that I don’t know. Don’t they realize that life isn’t a bowl of cherries, let alone a bowl of oatmeal? I tell you, I should have listened to my parents and become a dairy farmer instead of going into medicine. Cows aren’t demanding. Oh well, live and learn. Neil, let’s proceed. Time’s a wastin’.”

“Funny you should use that word, doctor,” I said, “because time is precisely what I’d like to talk to you about. It’s moving too fast, isn’t it? Why, you’d think that 2021 has a fire cracker up its ass, pardon my crudity. Before we know it, Santa Claus will be shimmying down chimneys all around the world. And a week after that, 2022 will have arrived.”

“Your perceptions are interesting and valid, Neil,” said my psychiatrist. “Did 2020 also move quickly for you?”

“Indeed it did, doctor, despite all my worrying about COVID. But 2021 is zipping along faster than any year ever has. What gives?”

“Well, how can I put this politely, Neil? Hmmm . . . a quick glance at your patient information chart reveals to me that the last time you might have been described as a spring chicken was five decades ago. To put it another way, your glory days are ancient history. Here then is the bottom line: You officially are old as shit, pardon my crudity. And it’s been proven that, as the years pass, time moves unusually quickly for a particular segment of males in the old as shit category, far more so than it does for anyone else. Sadly, you are a member of said segment.”

She sighed and shook her head, gazing, with pity in her eyes, at the abundant prune-like creases on my face. Then she said, “Neil, I refer you to the writings of Albert Einstein. Apparently, you are not familiar with his Specific Theory Of Relativity For Heavily-Wrinkled Old F*ckers, a brilliant treatise that explains how time affects those gentlemen with your dermatological condition. Pardon Professor Einstein’s crudity, by the way.”

“You are in your life’s homestretch, Neil,” she continued. “This is true even if you manage to hang on for another 25 years. And as if that isn’t bad enough, your remaining years are absolutely going to zoom by so fast they’ll make 2021 seem as though it had been in slow motion. Poof! In the relative blink of an eye your days above ground will be over. All of what I say, of course, paraphrases the Specific Theory, which I urge you to read. Einstein certainly was a genius, no? Fascinatingly, he was a prune lover too.”

“Holy crap, Dr, Forereel! You’re bumming me way out! What am I to do? I feel one hundred times worse than I did when we began today’s session.”

“I’m so sorry to be the bearer of truths, Neil. And I would like to help you dissolve the bleakness that you’re experiencing, but I’m afraid that this session has reached its end. Please try to keep your chin up. It’s sagging, you know. I hope to see you in four weeks.”

As down in the dumps as I’ve ever been, I shuffled out of her office, got into my car and made my way home. Not surprisingly, I arrived there in no time at all.