Uncle Ernie Facedown
October 28th 2008 13:24
When I was a young student I was blessed every year by an illness that would conveniently surface around the final run up to writing exams. Strange as it may seem the less prepared I was for the exam the more intense the illness became.
At the first sign, my mother would upgrade her status to ‘Code Red’ lunging at the medicine chest like a paramedic on Prozac, determined to save her son’s life. Even though there was no sign of a headache or sore throat I was dosed with copious amounts of Aspirin and cough mixture, just in case. She was determined the Grim Reaper would not claim her son – well not just yet.
With all the attention received from Mother I decided it was wonderful being ill. It was free 24/7 health care with house calls from Dr Norman our family practitioner of 15 years. Dr Norman would examine me while whistling an irritating piece of classical music that he’d made up as he went along. He reminded me of a bulimic Jack the Ripper on his way to White Chapel Road. Finally, with a twinkle in his eye and the obligatory “Okie Dokie little fella” he used to ground me from all physical exertion which included the emptying of dustbins, washing dishes, tidying my room, making my bed and of course the most strenuous of all - writing my exams. I loved Dr Norman.
After a couple of days I was running a slick ICU right here in my room – who wanted to work? It was really cool so I decided to pretend I had a terminal disease and I knew I could rely on Dr Norman to diagnose any disease I requested. There was a strong chance that I would never have to return to school ever again – all I had to do was select a disease.
This turned out to be a lot more difficult than anticipated. During that time there were not a lot of diseases to choose from - there was mumps, chicken pocks, scarlet fever, stomach ulcers, consumption (I don’t think you’ll find it on Wikipedia) there was also the occasional epileptic fit and the odd stroke but nothing that would draw national attention. There was no ‘publicity’ attached to disease in those days. A popular fatal disease was heart failure which was the generic name for dying. Nobody knew what caused it, how to prevent it and few of the warning signs. People carried on with their lives until they died and because of the lack of information available, heart failure was blamed for a lot of deaths – but it never made the news.
Cancer has always been around but was illusive usually hiding away disguised as something else. The only fear of the Big C was high tide in Hawaii.
Blocked arteries and cholesterol rarely featured - so you lived your life with more fear of another world war then you did of a lurking disease. It was simple, you got a pain in your chest and you would collapse face down into your French onion soup. “Hey Ma Uncle Ernie just died in his soup”
Marketing and medical folk of that period figured it was time for serious diseases to get ‘star’ billing. They started with heart failure and orchestrated campaigns to scare the living daylight out of you. They hit you with press and radio campaigns warning you of what your fate might be in the cardiac department – serious diseases had come of age. Heart failure was no longer generic it was now classified as ‘Heart Failure Specific’. Every newspaper and magazine featured pie charts and organograms showing all the functions of this wonderful organ.
You were suddenly aware of your own pump neatly tucked away under your rib cage, your friend who’s been performing perfectly even with a daily intake of Marlborough, Jack Daniels and Budweiser. – You were brainwashed into believing that nasty things could quite possibly strike when you least expected it.
Your reaction was fear so you immediately started cutting back on all the things that had brought you joy ever since you can remember. You cut back on red meat, you started running, you’d start do daily press ups – you might even fly to the East and indulge in some heavy meditation with a Guru who smokes Muesli joints.
Which ever way you looked at it your life as you knew it had changed. The irony being, you’ve been living your life, having a lot of fun until someone opened Pandora’s Box and gave you the bad news.
Imagine John Edwards’s crossing over to ask my Uncle Ernie how he enjoyed his heart attack? “What heart attack” he would say “I thought it was the soup?”
Hey - Just live a little.
At the first sign, my mother would upgrade her status to ‘Code Red’ lunging at the medicine chest like a paramedic on Prozac, determined to save her son’s life. Even though there was no sign of a headache or sore throat I was dosed with copious amounts of Aspirin and cough mixture, just in case. She was determined the Grim Reaper would not claim her son – well not just yet.
With all the attention received from Mother I decided it was wonderful being ill. It was free 24/7 health care with house calls from Dr Norman our family practitioner of 15 years. Dr Norman would examine me while whistling an irritating piece of classical music that he’d made up as he went along. He reminded me of a bulimic Jack the Ripper on his way to White Chapel Road. Finally, with a twinkle in his eye and the obligatory “Okie Dokie little fella” he used to ground me from all physical exertion which included the emptying of dustbins, washing dishes, tidying my room, making my bed and of course the most strenuous of all - writing my exams. I loved Dr Norman.
After a couple of days I was running a slick ICU right here in my room – who wanted to work? It was really cool so I decided to pretend I had a terminal disease and I knew I could rely on Dr Norman to diagnose any disease I requested. There was a strong chance that I would never have to return to school ever again – all I had to do was select a disease.
This turned out to be a lot more difficult than anticipated. During that time there were not a lot of diseases to choose from - there was mumps, chicken pocks, scarlet fever, stomach ulcers, consumption (I don’t think you’ll find it on Wikipedia) there was also the occasional epileptic fit and the odd stroke but nothing that would draw national attention. There was no ‘publicity’ attached to disease in those days. A popular fatal disease was heart failure which was the generic name for dying. Nobody knew what caused it, how to prevent it and few of the warning signs. People carried on with their lives until they died and because of the lack of information available, heart failure was blamed for a lot of deaths – but it never made the news.
Cancer has always been around but was illusive usually hiding away disguised as something else. The only fear of the Big C was high tide in Hawaii.
Blocked arteries and cholesterol rarely featured - so you lived your life with more fear of another world war then you did of a lurking disease. It was simple, you got a pain in your chest and you would collapse face down into your French onion soup. “Hey Ma Uncle Ernie just died in his soup”
Marketing and medical folk of that period figured it was time for serious diseases to get ‘star’ billing. They started with heart failure and orchestrated campaigns to scare the living daylight out of you. They hit you with press and radio campaigns warning you of what your fate might be in the cardiac department – serious diseases had come of age. Heart failure was no longer generic it was now classified as ‘Heart Failure Specific’. Every newspaper and magazine featured pie charts and organograms showing all the functions of this wonderful organ.
You were suddenly aware of your own pump neatly tucked away under your rib cage, your friend who’s been performing perfectly even with a daily intake of Marlborough, Jack Daniels and Budweiser. – You were brainwashed into believing that nasty things could quite possibly strike when you least expected it.
Your reaction was fear so you immediately started cutting back on all the things that had brought you joy ever since you can remember. You cut back on red meat, you started running, you’d start do daily press ups – you might even fly to the East and indulge in some heavy meditation with a Guru who smokes Muesli joints.
Which ever way you looked at it your life as you knew it had changed. The irony being, you’ve been living your life, having a lot of fun until someone opened Pandora’s Box and gave you the bad news.
Imagine John Edwards’s crossing over to ask my Uncle Ernie how he enjoyed his heart attack? “What heart attack” he would say “I thought it was the soup?”
Hey - Just live a little.
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