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Much Older Than His Age

Liam Spencer

    Well, they were at it again. Creative accounting. Inventing numbers that they convinced themselves were accurate and efficient. Their rules. Their numbers. Reigning supreme as they redefined the rules of mathematics, even down to the most basic level, to set their “expectations.”
    I was done. Two major back injuries in under twelve months, on top of the major surgeries I had sustained years ago, had derailed yet another career. The discs in my middle and lower back were all but gone to where my spine was highly at risk of yet more damage. Doctors agreed that my career was over, and I needed to find a different line of work.
    Yet, the mail must be delivered, and they were on the hook for making sure it was delivered, and faster than was humanly possible. Tightly written work restrictions were simply begging for management to find loopholes. I was a warm body, and thus I could defy all physical limitations somehow. And thus the arguments began and continued. For days. All of it being crammed down my throat again. Illegally. Unethically. Yet there I was.
    The union was pissed, and howled. I howled as well. “Just do it! What are you even here for?!”
    And thus I began, fully surrounded by the intensities, insults, assumptions, and accusations. Misery and pain, swirling together with madnesses, as the supervisors circled around like sharks.
    It was a way to get me out of the way. I was severely and permanently injured. A liability. Dead weight. I didn’t want to be there.

    My back and left leg would act up repeatedly, and I would hobble like I was ninety or some shit. I could usually hobble it off, cussing under my breath. Nights were agony. Ice packs and couch rest.
    The third day of that shit, doing what I should not be doing, it happened. I was casing mail, getting ready to run, and dividing up the mail I could not possibly do, when my back and leg began acting up. I tried hobbling to walk it off. It somehow got worse. Then it got worse still.
    I somehow made it to break time, a full hour into the shift. I was hoping that being away from hustling with weights would reset my back. Instead, it worsened. I was unable to stand up straight. My left leg trembled with weakness. My left hip felt like someone had hit it with a baseball bat. Cold sweat started dripping off me.
    When break was over, I hobbled inside, wrestling with what to do. As I walked, the pain got worse, and found its’ way into my groin. It hurt. I mean, it really fucking hurt.
    I could take no more, and went to find the supervisor. That’s when it began.
    “What?! Oh for fuck sake! You cannot be injured again!”
    “Well, I am, and I’m required to inform...”
    “Fuck! You know, you’re just a worthless piece of fucking shit! Why are you even here?!”
    On and on it went. People seeing this were in shock. There I was, bent over, left leg about to go out, cold sweat dripping off me, my face as white as if I had seen my own ghost, and having to force breath into my body, all the while being screamed at for being so worthless.
    If I hadn’t been in quite so much pain...they’d have gotten it. When I yell, it’s heard for blocks.
    And I have a long memory.

    When the abuse was over, I went to gather my things from my case. One of the other carriers was there casing my route.
    Joe was a workaholic. He was amazing at running through things faster than anyone else could. The guy never rested. Ever. He was all ego about it too. To him, work was the end all, be all. It was where people proved their worth. No excuses. He’d pick on those who were less capable, and do so ruthlessly, snickering and laughing to boot. It was his only source of joy in life. Well, that and drinking.
    Here it came. The snickering before the storm. I was about to be kicked again while I was down. I thought back to the days before all the injuries began mounting. I was a real force back then, to where I could, and sometimes did, outperform Joe. The difference was that I had simply wanted to get done with the workday so I could try to enjoy life. For him, it was life.
    Now I stood there, hunched over and in severe pain, answering his questions about my route. It continued to where he asked questions that all carriers would know. I gave him that look. He stood there snickering. I won’t forget it. How funny, right?
    Fuck Joe.

    I finally was allowed to leave to go see a doctor. By then, I knew the ropes of how to begin recovering, but needed a doctor’s note to excuse me from work until I could see my regular spinal specialist.
    I was in uniform, and so the express clinic assumed it was a work injury. Workers comp is so fucking terrible for all concerned that few doctors are willing to see patients that have work injuries. They sent me away.
    I called my doctor’s office. My doctor was on vacation. The fill in doctor was contacted to see if he was allowed to see me, as per workers comp rules. They would call me back. I drove all the way there, to the hospital, got a cup of coffee, and waited for their call. I just wanted to be home, lying on the couch with an ice pack.
    It would turn out that workers comp rules required that only the attending physician deal with an injured worker. I was advised to just go to the emergency room.
    Fuck! I hate hospitals in general, but especially emergency rooms! That’s where germs go to party. Further, that’s for people with real emergencies, not for someone that needs a piece of paper. I had no choice, though. I’d get fired if I didn’t have that fucking piece of paper. And people wonder why health care costs so much. Ask the fucking employers why they have to be such assholes.
    I knew it would take all day, especially with it being a holiday weekend. July 4^th was upon us.

    Obviously, being an emergency room, people with real emergencies would be priority. I always assume that the medical staff is stuck with long miserable days too, so I always make it a point to be very friendly and nice to them. The last thing I ever want is to make someone’s long miserable day even longer and more miserable. Besides, more flies with honey.
    So there I was; in severe pain, miserable, hobbling around, and massively pissed off at management. Wow was I pissed. I grumbled and ranted and cussed under my breath.
    “Who the FUCK are they talking to?!”
    “Those motherfucking assholes from hell have no idea what I can bring!”
    Then one of the medical staff would walk by.
    “Oh hi!” I would cheerfully say.
    On and on it went.

    Some guy, likely in his late twenties began arguing with some of the medical staff. He was pissed about having to wait so long, and not getting the answers he wanted. On and on he went. How they weren’t doing their jobs right. How he was really sick.
    “Sir, that’s all we can do here, ok? We have to give priority to those who are in serious jeopardy, ok? We’ve recommended some over the counter...”
    “No. That’s not right. It’s supposed to be first come, first served...and over the counter is just not going to work.”
    “Well, that’s all we can do... Sorry for such a long wait, but we have to give priority...”
    “No, you’re just not doing your jobs.”
    On and on. We’re all trapped with such long and miserable days. Surely there must be better ways. All this shit for higher profits. I felt for the medical staff.

    Four hours in, they were ready to see me. My entire focus was on getting that damn piece of paper that would state the obvious; that I couldn’t work until being evaluated by my regular doctor.
    The woman took my blood pressure.
    “Wait. That can’t be right. Let me take it again.”
    I kept talking about that piece of paper.
    “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to go get a new one of these.”
    She came bounding back in, cheerful and kind of sexy, and took the blood pressure again. I kept talking about that piece of paper. I just wanted to get out of there.
    Her eyes grew extremely wide.
    “I’ll be right back. I have to get the doctor.”
    She rushed through the curtain.
    “All this for a piece of paper.” I mumbled.

    A middle aged, healthy looking doctor came bounding through the curtain. She had a sexiness to her too. She smiled and took my blood pressure as I went on about that piece of paper.
    She stepped back and looked at me with an expression of seriousness that I was not prepared for.
    “Sir, are you having any chest pains? Numbness or tingling running down your left arm...”
    “No. nothing like that.”
    “Sir, are you sure? Really. Are you sure?”
    “Yes, I’m sure. There’s nothing like that going on.”
    “Ok. How much pain are you IN?”
    “A lot.”
    “Ok, here’s what we’re going to do. I read in your file that you hate pain pills, but you’re going to have to have them, ok? Then we’re going to put this new kind of pain patch on your back, ok?”
    “Alright, yeah, I can do that...but I also really need to have a piece of paper saying that I cannot work until I see my doctor next Friday.”
    “Sir, while the pain medication begins working, the paperwork that we will be working on is to admit you to the hospital for observation over the weekend.”
    “But all I need is..... Wait....What?”
    I guess that’s what it takes to get my attention.
    “Sir, you have the highest blood pressure we have ever seen.”
    “Yeah.”
    She looked at me as though I was the dumbest person ever. Maybe I was.
    “Sir, you are at extremely high risk of a severe heart attack, stroke, or especially kidney failure RIGHT NOW. We are going to have to admit you.”

    That’s what did it. I stood there in partial shock, digesting all of it. It was then and there, in that moment that I resolved that I would never be on the time clock at the Post Office ever again, no matter what. None of that mattered anymore. No matter what anyone said about it. Never again.
    It’s a fucking job. It’s not worth dying for.

    The guy who gave me the pain pills and placed the patch on my back asked if I minded if he took my blood pressure, saying “I gotta see this.”
    When he was done, his eyes grew large.
    “I’ll be right back. I have to go get the doctor.”
    He rushed through the curtains. Soon the doctor bounded in and took my blood pressure. She looked puzzled.
    “Ok. What happened? It’s too early for the pain medications to be working, yet your blood pressure has dropped... It’s still way too high, but it’s much better. So, what happened?”
    “Well, I resolved that I would never be on the time clock at USPS ever again, no matter what.”
    She laughed.
    “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”
    “And it won’t be the last.”

    The deal that was reached was that I would be allowed to go home on two conditions; One was that they would set up an appointment with a primary care doctor and a specialist within three days, and two, that I would go straight home, take blood pressure meds, and not drive or operate machinery for at least a day, as the blood pressure meds were very strong and would leave me loopy. I readily agreed, and was thrilled to not be stuck in a damn hospital.
    They weren’t kidding with the blood pressure meds. Wow. Loopy was an understatement. I took the pills, and made coffee (my drug of choice for pain). The first sip of coffee nearly had my eyes pop out. It went straight to my head. Having a smoke made my face cartoon like. Wow that was strong stuff!

    I decided to say the hell with the post office as far as handing in the required paperwork in person. Instead, I simply called off work. I knew that, should I go there, I wouldn’t be able to refrain from verbally shredding the pieces of shit, thus driving up my blood pressure. It wasn’t worth it. I would wait until I saw my doctor, who would certainly mark me off work for a long time to come. Long enough for me to recover to where I could find a different line of work.
    In the meantime, it was the couch and ice packs. Quite the life. Oh the good life, wasting away, dealing with back spasms, sleeping for an hour or two here and there, unable to go anywhere or do anything...not even able to write. Living large indeed.

    I made it to the appointment to meet my new primary care doctor. I had never had one before. I never thought I needed one, despite being lucky enough to have good insurance. The specialist visit was to be concurrent. I liked that idea; two birds, one boulder.
    The medical assistant (I think that’s the job title) sat there cheerfully. She was attractive and sexy in a nice gritty kind of way. The kind that can be all business, with a politeness about her, but would eagerly drop pretentions with a likeminded person. The type of woman who had friend written on her, but could be so much more with the right person, to a point.
    The blood pressure was still way too high. She left to tend to other patients. The doctor would be in shortly.
    I hobbled around the small room. My back hurt way too much for me to sit for long. I hobbled and hobbled, while surfing Facebook on my cell phone, and sharing anti-Trump things. My focus again was on a piece of paper that would excuse me from work until I could be examined by my attending doctor. I was ready for the long wait that accompanied the long miserable days suffered by hurried medical staff. I had nothing but time.
    Before long, there was a quick knock on the door, then the door opened. A beautiful young woman in a doctor’s lab coat came bounding in, all smiles. She promptly tripped over something, and lost her balance. She regained her balance just in time to not fall into me. However, it was close enough that the ends of our noses touched and rubbed together.
    Each of us regained our composure, and we shook hands. I had just met my new primary care doctor.
    After she introduced herself, while blushing a little, she said that she wanted me to know that they hadn’t forgotten about me, but were having a short conference before getting to my appointment. I watched as she walked away. She had quite the body on her, and was very attractive.

    I hobbled around some more, and was embarrassed of thinking such things about the doctor. I mean, here was a very intelligent, capable, and accomplished woman (a doctor for shitsake), and yet there I was seeing how attractive she was. I’m approaching my mid-forties. Surely by now I can handle being around intelligent, accomplished women without drooling over how hot they are. Yet, those are some of the qualities that I find hard to resist having some sort of crush on the woman. Still, it seemed wrong.
    She came in all smiles and glowing. Aside from the lab coat, she was dressed quite sexily. I couldn’t help but notice. I fought it down, reminding myself that I am an adult, and she is a very intelligent and accomplished woman who deserves to be seen as such. Still, how to hide finding someone attractive?
    Blood pressure having been taken again, a prescription was written. Strong stuff. She disagreed with the E.R. doctor, saying I should have been hospitalized. I didn’t like the sound of that.
    The good doctor decided to take my blood pressure herself, for good measure. She crouched down in front of me to put the cuff on my right arm. Although I looked forward, I could see the cleavage that was right before me. Her amazing legs were quite revealing in that crouched position. I’ve always been a leg man. The sight was too much. Talk about driving up my blood pressure.
    What was I to do? It would have been rude to look the other way, yet looking straight forward had me seeing quite a bit of sexiness buried in a lab coat. I made pleasant small talk, while concerned that she was picking up on my being attracted. I worried about it, doing all I could to not think such thoughts.
    The good doctor was having trouble holding both the stethoscope and the gauge at the same time, so I offered to hold the gauge. Surely I am qualified to do that. She agreed. I knew it was unintentional, but as I held onto the gauge, she did not let go of it.
    So, there I sat, trying not to be attracted to a beautiful woman that was crouched down right in front of me, with both her great cleavage and amazing legs hanging out there to where I could not help but see, while we held hands...all while measuring my blood pressure. Perfect.

    She sat back at her desk writing prescriptions while I gathered myself. I made nervous, pleasant small talk as she pretended to laugh at my dumb, yet harmless, jokes. She seemed to blush a little, but I thought I might be wishfully imagining it.
    Soon, an older doctor came in. It was the specialist. She was in her late fifties, and had a well earned weatheredness to her. I was relieved and a little more comfortable somehow. They both conferred and agreed on the prescriptions and the plan going forward. Soon the appointment was over, and a new one was set. I left, and filled the prescriptions, then took the bus home, hard on and all.

    The hospital I go to has a secure webpage where doctor notes are posted online. Often these notes are quite telling, and provide a good jumping off point to research what is wrong with a person. Not as scary as one may think. Doctors haven’t yet realized that the system provides everything the doctor has written.
    Thus, it can tend to take on a Seinfeld episode type of experience; “A difficult patient? I’m not difficult. I’m easy.” I still laugh.
    I could see why some of the descriptions of a patient would be valuable to share with other medical staff. For instance, noting that someone is “pleasant” lets staff know that they can relax a little, knowing the person is not an asshole. Makes sense. Likewise, “intelligent” would mean that staff won’t have to dumb everything down or explain every little thing. Makes sense.

    I looked up the good doctor’s notes. She described me as “a very pleasant and intelligent gentleman who looks much older than his age.”
    Wait, what?

    I stood in front of my bathroom mirror looking at my reflection. The weathered lines showed clear as day. Why did she have to say that? Yes, it seemed true, but of what value is putting that in the notes? It’s not as if medical staff would go around looking for the oldest looking guy there to see if it were me.
    I thought back to all the years of bullshit, and realized I was actually much older than my age, and thus looked the part. There simply must be better ways to do things than have so called profits robbing people of their lives and souls. Surely there should be better ways of making a living without selling our bodies to where we can never recover. Surely there must be... Oh fuck it, never mind. Things are what they are. Same as it always was.
    I’m just another story. One of millions or billions already told, being told, or to be told. Some things just never change.

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