Thursday, 26 July 2012

Dear Diary Nº3

Dear Diary you find me having been a bit under the weather of late. Health issues to be precise. Men are notoriously bad about certain and many health problems. Yes we get man-flu, which is highly debilitating, but we never complain about that. But we tend to ignore tell-tale signs that our bodies give us about bits that might start to break down or fall off. And, men don’t talk about health do they DD? No Paul they don’t.

A definite no go area for us chaps is to talk about the prostate. DD don’t tell anyone but I’ve got a prostate problem. Mine is enlarged according to the doctor that stuck his finger up my arse. I’ve also had blood and urine tests to see if there are any signs of anything else being untoward and thankfully there doesn’t appear to be. So Dear Diary I can no longer ‘write’ my name in front of me on the urinal, it takes me a bit longer to wee and I usually have to get up in the night to visit the lav but I can live with that. Apparently past the age of 55 the men’s prostates do start to increase in size, its part of the natural aging process, just some increase more than others. Other problems can occur. Cancer for instance. But if caught early can be treated successfully. Dear Diary I think more chaps should be aware of this stuff, not stay silent and should certainly seek medical advice.

DD they do say that, “it never rains but it pours”, and that’s how it seems to me as my blood tests showed up that I have Impaired Glucose Tolerance. My blood sugar level is on the high side of normal. I also have a spare tyre. Dear Diary I need a lifestyle change; more exercise and a better diet. This is it now for the rest of my life. If I can stave off diabetes I will do so.

This getting old lark is a bit of a bugger really.

Psst! Dear Diary like I said don’t breathe a word of this to anyone please.



Life tag – Jethro Tull – Life is a Long Song

1 comment:

  1. Sorry to hear that, Paul... Err, I mean,uh, sorry I *did not* hear anything. Your diary didn't breath a word to me, I swear it.

    Ageing bites. There really is no other way to phrase it. I'm only 21, but I'm already starting to dread the passing of the next couple of decades.

    If there is one thing I have learned in my short life, though, is that aging and death are inevitable. And thus should never, ever, ever be met with fear, regardless of what your instincts tell you to feel. Please don't be afraid when the end comes, Mr. Gerrard. Instead, on that dark day, I want you to look Death right into his pitch-black hood and say:

    "Well, hello, Mr. Reaper. I was wondering when you would show up. I've had a helluva time waiting for you, but if you insist it's time to go, then who am I to argue?"

    I genuinly hope that this is only a passing thing, and that you have many happy years ahead of you.


    I don't mean to cast a shadow on you life, Paul. Should the worst happen, however, I want you to go the grave smiling at the fact that you at least made a difference in the life of this one, pathetic, little American student. You've shown me that people are people the world over, and that they want what they think is best for the world, regardless of their opinion on obtaining it.

    I'm an agnostic, Mr. Gerrard, and I know that you are an atheist. Bless you, Paul.

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