musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff


I was married once; it was okay; I might even describe it as fulfilling at times -although mostly the filling full of rooms, and often with furniture. Or rugs. Or appliances. Or, well, gadgets: time-savers. But now that I’m retired, Time is only a nuisance -something I am destined to have instead of money; something of which I currently have a surfeit. It is not entirely clear why I should be saving it.

Still, I suppose the long ago filling-full period of my life rejoiced in connubial fashion. It was measured in what others would describe as beauty, I guess: ‘Wow, look at that stove, eh? I saw one of those in Better Homes and Gardens recently…’ Or, moving to the bedroom: ‘A King-size bed! That’s great, you know -it allows each of you to stretch out!’

But everything gets old; nothing keeps, and what was once de rigueur becomes infelicitous. Antediluvian. Also it wears out if it doesn’t get broken. And anyway, fashion waits for no one; if we don’t rejuvenate things, we fall behind. Personally, I never saw it as a race, but just as style moves on, so do relationships, and I was left behind reading yesterday’s news. That suited me; I was satisfied with the historic as long as it worked; I looked upon it as if I was saving Time itself without rushing about in a search for more.

As I watch the years run speedily past, however, it is becoming increasingly apparent to my friends, that I have missed a lot. Most years are a blur, of course; I could never notice everything -only the clever stuff that would otherwise never have occurred to me. Still, perhaps missing things is a part the Grand Epilogue: the idiosyncrasies that get mentioned at the wake.  

I’m not sure how I would go about summarizing what I have missed, though -or for that matter, even notice that what I still use that has come to the end of its recognizable function. Compared to many others, I’d say I’ve lived a rather cosseted life: I’ve never broken any important organs, for example, and I seldom gaze into a mirror in the morning hoping my beard is no longer grizzled, or that my front teeth have suddenly turned white. As living people go, I’m safely ensconced in the middle of the Bell curve, I suspect; Goldilocks would have loved my house.

Still, if I want to be considered truly mid-Bell-worthy, there are things I’m told I should possess, but don’t. Before all of the pandemic restrictions, the most common complaint from would-be visitors, was the need for a sidewalk to the door, but I always saw it as of little consequence given the infrequency of ambulatory visitors willing to walk the 5 kilometers from the nearest town. And besides, I’ve always had a perfectly good asphalt driveway, with a door to the house to knock on in the garage should there ever be an emergency.

I have also been criticized by those driving past on the road for not mowing the fields that surround the house, but they probably just miss the sheep that used to keep the weeds in good repair. A few years ago I tried scything some of it, but I got tired of the labour involved, not to mention the horns honking as people slowed to watch and point as they drove past. Plus, there was no discernible advantage for the fields; it was like trying to cut my own hair.

No, I think people expect too much of a house in the country. You can’t just plop a city house on a field out here and expect it to flourish, or anything. For one thing, some of us are on our own wells and septic systems which bothers people who are profligate disposers. And if -no, when– the electricity goes out, not only is there no TV or microwave oven, but also no water. You get used to that kind of inconvenience after a while, however. I store water in the fridge that I’ve filtered for fear of Beaver Fever, so it’s only the shower I can’t use in an outage. But, given that it’s just me, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

Of course the item that most seems to bother the few visitors who ever manage to make it through the door, is the main bathroom. For my tastes, it is perfectly functional. I mean, except to shower, I don’t spend much time in there, so why should it contain anything that tempts a longer visit? My ensuite is stocked with books of course, but in the more public bathroom, guests are not offered a library or TV screen. For them it is a business room only.

The room that I offer those foolish enough to visit me with a demanding bladder, is certainly adequate for the purpose: shower, toilet, industrial quality paper, sink, soap and towel, and the requisite mirror for touch-ups. There is a noisy fan that can be activated if required as well, but it seems to echo through the house and often interferes with WiFi reception. It may not even work anymore.

But, what is a bathroom, anyway? We’re not talking Existential, Sartrean stuff. I mean it’s not really the faux Rest Room like they are fond of calling it in gas stations. Far from being a sanctum sanctorum, or a sanctuary where one can rest and think about the deeper meaning of Life, in a gas station the clerk behind the soft drink counter would have the medics break down the door if you stayed longer than 10 minutes. And nowadays, it would be naïve to suppose that a bathroom should contain its namesake either, because it usually doesn’t… Okay, mine doesn’t; it did but my partner exchanged it for a dual-head shower stall… I think she regretted it, though.

Anyway, I meditate in the living room, I read in the kitchen (or the ensuite), and I think at the computer screen. For me, the bathroom is only an interregnum, a comma between words, as it were: a short pause between parsing Life’s other exigencies. I wouldn’t have it any other way -although I suppose I should keep the fan for the dwindling number of guests…

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gozzter

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