“If you see my darling with somebody new, keep it a secret whatever you do. Why should you tell me and break my poor heart? Just keep it a secret from me.”
So went an old song. I agree. If she’s spreading it around, knowing won’t help. Besides, it’s her gazebo.
So too with medical matters. You’ll be going merrily along. Then some medic says you have something. Thenceforward your life is endless worry.
I know my blood pressure is something over something. My blood type is red. It is enough.
There’s really only one indicator of good health that matters, reputedly favoured by a nurse at the Harry Bayley Clinic. After morning baths she would report: “Doc, fellow in Room 8 ready to go home. Got a whopper too!”
Others take the opposite view. They want to know every detail. Blood sugar this, cholesterol that. No problem there. Except when they want to tell it to me.
This started way back. They took me to see Joe after his op. His appendix burst and he barely made it. One minute the nurse was inviting me to see the appendix proudly displayed in a jar, the next I was flat out on the floor. Thus began the nightmare of a lifetime.
I’m better now thanks to my wife’s family. They drool over medical details. At a typical lunch they start by comparing morning urine readings. Then proceed randomly: “He goin’ lose that leg . . . .” “I hear they push a wire up through it . . . .” “Imagine goadies in this day and age . . . . ” “If she’s getting a CAT scan, they must have one helluva big machine . . .” While I squirm.
Anyway, it was thus with little enthusiasm that I reported to the Holetown Reference Lab for tests last Friday. Sat in the waiting room next to a nice lady fiddling with her cellphone.
Enter a younger version who knew her. They started catching up. Lady one (L1) had put on 22 lbs. She blamed Barbados’ hospitality. (This is a problem. Hosts stuff you. Me, I don’t offer nobody nothing.) She was cutting the carbs.
Lady 2 (L2) had put on 12 pounds. In all the right places if you ask me. Then, as I feared, she got a little medical. She couldn’t ride as collar bone was still on the mend. On blood thinners for some other problem. Lord, I prayed, if she gets any more technical, I’m dead.
Then she revealed Joy’s secret. Obviously a mutual acquaintance. Joy’s aquarobics instructor straps weights onto her and she works out in the pool. Great way to stay in shape. Once the instructor doesn’t add too many weights and go off on a lengthy phone call . . . .
For the record, I’ve dropped 12 pounds in the past few months. Wearing pants that couldn’t fit 10 years ago. Recently the wife saw me preening naked in front of the mirror. “Why not get ‘RH’ tattooed on your stomach?” she asked sweetly. “But everybody knows I’m RH!” “No, I meant ‘RH’ as in rock hard abs”. (Sarcasm and envy there.)
Drink whole milk (no 2 per cent junk); eat pork; cut meal sizes; avoid salt and sugar; lots of water; walk the Morgan Lewis hills. Works for me.
Luckily, lady one got called at that point and, after discovering I hadn’t fasted, the receptionist told me I would have to face the ordeal all over again this week.
Headed thereafter to the Molasses Terminal. Nice people, especially the guard. Which is why this column was to be about the sugar industry. That will have to be next week.
By the way, I there bought a roti from a bicycle vendor who said his are the best. They are. Just perfect. And not size-ically challenged either. I suggest Chefette offer him half-million to come aboard before Kamla lures him down with an oil well or two.
Finally on Sunday had lunch at Sand Dunes with a lady from Switzerland, a former model who still looks the part. Suddenly out of the blue she remarked: “You have some lovely cocks on this island!”
I was about to suggest she not mention that to friends back home, but figured, what the heck, why keep it a secret? She was of course referring to our male yard poultry and their resplendent plumage.
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.
Email porkhoad@gmail.com