Once upon a time, I got up off the cart about to wheel me into the operating and harrumphed off to find my clothes with my bare bottom peeking through the gown. That particular surgeon was too religious -- he thought he was God.
True story as my daughter, Annie, will attest.
I don't think I'm a difficult patient. And, luckily, I like my various doctors. But every now and then I want to grab the doc up by the lapels on his white smock and growl: "just tell me the truth, dammit."
Well, maybe I am a little difficult. There was the time when I confronted my cardiac electrophysiologist about my newly-implanted pacemaker/defibrillator combo.
"How do I die?" I asked the doctor.
"What do you mean?" he asked back.
"I mean -- how do I die. I don't want this damn defibrillator firing off and causing me to flop around in the street after I'm long gone."
He walked away mumbling something about not having enough data. He might have been giggling.
But seriously, most of the geezers I know have more in common with Walter Matthau than with Jack Lemmon.
We've got to shuck this saccharine image, people. Just look at all the pap that AARP cooks up in their many publications. Tweet, tweet.
Geezers aren't sweet old people who feed the birds. We are hard-edged, crotchety old people who have lived through a helluva lot. Give us respect for that and stop this inane molly-coddling. Molly coddling is but a step away from warehousing.
I don't want your senior discount. Give it to the single mom who is having trouble making ends meet.
I do want your respect.