Opinion

Jake O'Kane: My diary used to be full of upcoming enjoyable events. These days, it is appointments with dentists, physiotherapists and doctors...

I look at a wall calendar once notated with upcoming enjoyable events. These days, it reminds me of appointments with dentists, physiotherapists and doctors. Some of the medical checks involved are of such a gross nature I couldn't possibly share them, for fear you would lose your breakfast

Jake O'Kane

Jake O'Kane

Jake is a comic, columnist and contrarian.

Jake gives his column a final check before filing it; failing eyesight is just another of his battles against old age and decrepitude...
Jake gives his column a final check before filing it; failing eyesight is just another of his battles against old age and decrepitude... Jake gives his column a final check before filing it; failing eyesight is just another of his battles against old age and decrepitude...

HAVING talked last week about my ever-decreasing number of teeth, I thought I'd continue the theme by sharing the latest part of my aged body to stop working. Wrong guess, though I'm sure it too hasn't long to go. No, where once I needed glasses to read, I now need them to see.

I can't complain, I got to sixty, although I fear having face furniture may negatively impact on my stunning good looks - a delusion which only proves my need for eyewear. Laser eye treatment is an option but, at my age, I don't believe I'd get my money's worth.

The signs were there for some time but, like most men, I decided the best action was to simply ignore reality and hope they'd go away.

However, one morning, having completed my ablutions, I reached into the bathroom cabinet and took out my deodorant. Squirting it under my arm I thought it had run out as the can didn't emit its usual hiss. On lowering my arm, I was aware of an unexpected slapping sound. This isn't right, I thought. I'm sharp that way.

I stared into the bathroom mirror, bewildered, at my armpit covered in a white foam. Squinting at the spray can in my hand, I read 'shaving foam' before realising what had happened.

It could have been much worse - I've a friend who now wears his glasses upon wakening after a more painful bathroom mishap. The man in question - who will remain anonymous - was plagued with haemorrhoids, an affliction exacerbated when he consumed stout - not that this stopped him.

Having spent the day in question consuming an obscene amount of the black stuff, he fell into bed, half-cut. Not that his now-inflamed haemorrhoids allowed him much rest, rousing him in the middle of the night with a throbbing posterior.

Both semi-conscious and semi-sober, he hobbled into the bathroom, seeking relief. Like me, he reached into his bathroom cabinet and retrieved his haemorrhoid cream, which he liberally applied to the afflicted area.

The ensuing screams not only woke up his own household but those of adjoining neighbours; what he'd applied wasn't haemorrhoid cream but Deep Heat.

He still denies it but his wife - a long suffering and honest woman - reports that on reaching the bathroom, fully expecting to find him in the throes of a heart attack, she was greeted by an even more horrific sight. Yer man, half-naked, was attempting a handstand under the shower in their bath.

My wife recently pointed out that as I've gotten older I seldom miss an opportunity to share my mounting physical ailments. I explained that it would be churlish of me not to share with her the interesting vicissitudes of my dive towards physical extinction.

I also reminded her of her wedding vows "to have and to hold, in sickness and health", which is a binding contract both in the eyes of the Lord and courts. Modesty curtails my ability to share her reply.

I know young ones reading this - having yet to experience such decrepitude - will skip through the rest of the day, happy to still possess all their teeth, have eyes which work unaided and remain able to drink stout without accruing rectal punishment.

Those my age and older will empathise with my woes, then use this column as a precursor to launch into a lament about their own poor health.

"Did you read O'Kane today? Sure, he doesn't know how lucky he is; if he'd my back he'd know what real pain was. And aren't you crippled with arthritis? The man has no concern for his readership, I tell you, and if I could only find my glasses I'd write and tell him so."

From where I sit, I look up at a wall calendar once notated with upcoming enjoyable events. These days, it reminds me of appointments with dentists, physiotherapists and doctors.

Some of the medical checks involved are of such a gross nature I couldn't possibly share them, for fear you would lose your breakfast.

Suffice to say, every aperture available for probing will be probed and samples which should only leave your body whilst seated will be gathered and examined.

I'm reminded of the advice given to my wife on arriving at hospital to give birth to our children, that she should check her dignity at the door. I'd suggest the same advice is added at the end of hospital appointment letters sent to us oldies.