Can You Hear Me Now

Yes, Mother. I can see you are flawed. You have not hidden it. That is your greatest gift to me.

Alice Walker

Last week I had my Medicare Wellness Check. For those of you not on Medicare, it’s a yearly visit with your doctor to evaluate your health both physically and emotionally. In addition to the standard procedures of listening to your heart and shining a bright light into your eyes, you are asked questions such as:

• Do you often get the emotional support you need?
• Do you feel safe in your home environment?
• Have any concerns about your memory been raised by family members, friends, caretakers, or others?
• In the past seven days, how many days did you exercise?
• In the past seven days, how often did you eat three or more servings of fruits and vegetables in a day?

As a white man who has led a more-than-deserved privileged life, none of my answers were a cause for concern from my doctor (who, by the way, is amazing). Even so, I appreciate that they are asked. There are far too many men and women my age and older who struggle with aspects of life I take for granted. This may be the one time each year when a caring voice asks how they are doing.

These questions allow the practitioner to go deeper than height, weight, blood pressure, and earwax. Western medicine is typically only concerned with the physical aspects of health and pays far less attention to the emotional and situational components. How do you feel? Are you afraid? Are you getting the care you need?

The same reticence to go beyond the physical body can often hold true for the patient. I find it much easier to tell my doctor that my foot hurts rather than offer up that I am sad about a loss of a good friend. Despite that, I firmly believe that we are holistic beings and need to be evaluated as such. Stress can be as big a contributor to disease as heredity, bacteria, and environment. I may not be anxious to say something on my own, but if asked by someone I trust, there is a better chance of me opening up.

Does Anybody Really Know What Time it Is

The wellness exam is also where you are asked to remember three random words, draw a clock face, and indicate 10 minutes after 11. My words were banana, sunrise, and chair and I am happy to report that I got all three right. Coming from a man who when introduced to someone new almost immediately forgets their name, this was a much greater accomplishment than one might otherwise imagine.

As for the clock, I got both tasks right, but I do wonder how many of today’s young people could do the same. I question if my oldest granddaughter knows how to “tell time.” Traditional clocks are going the way of the rotary phone. I hate to admit it, but the world I grew up in is fast becoming a series of a trivia questions and Internet memes.

I also use this visit to get a raft of blood tests. I have been monitoring several values for the past six or seven years and I am happy to report that a few numbers improved from last year’s go-round. There were also some that I had hoped would change for the better, but I am thankful that nothing is overly concerning. I have my Polish background to blame for the less than desirable test results and I will continue to do what I can to rise above my cursed genetics.

Fun fact. Some years ago I did the 23 and Me DNA analysis. I was looking to see if I carried a specific gene mutation and was happy to find that I did not. As an added bonus, I learned a few things about my ancestry. Specifically, I learned that I am nearly 100% European and except for some trace amounts of Nordic, German, and Dutch, most of me is Polish, Ukrainian, and Czech. Not only does that explain many of my physical traits (those black, bushy eyebrows), it also explains why certain medical conditions run rampant through my birth and extended family. Too much inbreeding.

What Lies Beneath

Every Wednesday at 10 in the morning, I meet with a group of retired men for casual conversation. I say casual because we don’t have topic or an agenda. That’s not to say that we don’t discuss important matters. Someone might say something about a struggling child which leads another to add a story about his recent trip to visit a dying relative.

This past Wednesday, we found our way to talking about people who live with hidden illnesses. It began when one gentlemen spoke about his partner’s daughter’s unseen health complication. She lives with chronic pain that has no diagnosis, and therefore, no obvious or prescribed recovery path. The conversation quickly morphed into nearly everyone sharing their own hidden illness stories. You cannot live to 60 and beyond without experiencing what it means to be a fragile human being. Whether it’s physical, emotional, or mental issues, we are all dealing with something.

I include myself in that bunch and since I knew I was in a safe space, I shared one of my personal hidden illnesses. The purpose was not to find a cure. Twenty five years of doctors and non-traditional healers have not been able to do that. The purpose was to be heard, seen, and understood.

It may have also been to allow others to help shoulder my burden. Time and time again I have found that sharing, and therefore removing, a secret has enabled others to let me know that I am not alone in my suffering. It’s similar to what I spoke of in last week’s article on Beloved Community. Sharing our vulnerabilities brings us closer to one another. Hold me up so I can do the same for you.

There are, of course, the hidden illnesses that will not be found on an x-ray or MRI. Who among us does not know of someone who suffers from some form of mental health disorder, addiction, depression, obsession, or any number of ailments that effect mind, spirit, and soul? That person can even be you or me. These hidden struggles are as valid as any found in blood and flesh, but all too often they are shrouded by guilt and shame.

To the fathers and the mothers
with our daily setbacks and struggles
to the children well fed or the painfully hungry
to the rich and the poor and burdens that each must bear
to the gay and the straight
the complacent and the restless
to those blessed with surety
and those that forever question

To us
the birds of many feathers
flocked together as one

In a Heartbeat

2025 is drawing to a close and I am grateful that I am ending it in good health. I know of too many people who have dealt with very difficult issues this past year. Sadly, more than one is no longer with us today. So, while I am doing reasonably well (and I have the numbers to prove it), I understand how quickly that might, and one day will change. No matter what, though, I plan to stay hopeful and optimistic that whatever is thrown my way is not more than I can bear. May it be the same for you and yours.

Thank you for reading.

Carry me he said
over this field of glass
shattered
across this river too broad to wade

Carry these legs
broken
these helpless arms

Lift up this heart
beating faintly

Carry me he said
until I sprout the wings to fly
over the long and wearisome miles