c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-26)
T. C. Lincoln never enjoyed doctor visits. They placed him in a situation where life choices made without much forethought were given a level of scrutiny that he did not enjoy. Under that spotlight of analysis, he was forced to choose between offering honest admissions about his habits, or defeating the purpose of medical care by practicing obfuscation. Neither option was appealing. More than anything, he relished the opportunity to be done, and freed from the demands of such examinations.
At home, within the rustic perimeter of Evergreen Estates, he felt more comfortable as an inhabitant of the continuum.
His body balked at cooperating with this arrangement, however. Now and then, offering reasons for a closer look by experts in the field of medicine. Many of these causes were related to the process of aging. Though a few were lifelong woes brought on by diet, alcoholism, and a general lack of physical activity. He was the embodiment of modern, American decline. Obese, shaggy, unable to walk normally, struggling with his vision and balance, and often cranky if not drinking shortly after the hour of noon.
Neighbors had their coping mechanism – to stay away unless some quirk of fate drew them close for a specific purpose. The old hermit also had his own strategies for survival, which were straightforward and obvious. He was drunk almost every day. But with a buffer zone between his own singlewide trailer, and others on the street, this did not present a problem. Only when his love for privacy was not respected did issues arise.
Disability had caused him to move slowly and with deliberation, when walking. He appeared barely able to stand or perform basic chores in his ragged abode. Yet upon being triggered, his skill with metal canes was admirable. He could swing with the force of a major-league batter, aiming to send a baseball far past the outfield fences.
This meant that anyone who underestimated his ability to defend himself quickly realized the mistake of their assessment. Teeth might be loosened, or jawbones fractured. Offenders learned never to challenge the contrarian loner, again.
The only foe he could not vanquish, by any means, was genetics.
With a square-cornered bottle of Tennessee whiskey, he sat on his wooden bench and scrolled through a pre-visit assessment on his cell phone. Something that had become familiar before every encounter with a health professional in his care network. The queries were nagging and probative. Each line of text made him growl while drinking his liquor.
“Do you use tobacco products? If not, were you formerly a smoker? If so, when did you quit?”
Lincoln sputtered while struggling to remember.
“Dammit, I gave up my Camel shortys in 1986. That was a lifetime ago! Same for cigarillos and the pipe. All of that mess is crazy expensive now...”
“How many times per week do you exercise? Do you have a gym membership?”
The cranky boozer laughed loudly while considering that he used to lift weights, in New York.
“Gym membership? Hell, I can hardly get out of bed in the morning nowadays!”
“Do you have a family history of heart disease, cancer, diabetes, or other afflictions?”
That question made him turn red with irritation. He shouted at the wireless device as if someone were listening.
“Of course I do, both my parents came from Appalachia! I’m a gawdamn hillbilly! We grew up on fried bologna, hot dogs, and pepperoni rolls. What would you expect? Biscuits and gravy were a staple in my mother’s kitchen. Lots of fried potatoes and cheesy macaroni...”
“How many alcoholic drinks do you have in a week?”
He bristled at the last entry. It was a sore spot to ask about brewed and distilled concoctions. With his right hand trembling, he entered a quantity of six per week.
“That’s close enough, okay? Don’t ask me again!”
With his container of brown juice half empty, a mood of calm took hold. He slouched on the wooden bench while pondering the upcoming appointment, at a clinic in Geneva. As always, he would give a good report of his own condition, despite having failed joints, arthritis, swelling in his limbs, constant soreness, weakening vision, incontinence, spells of vertigo, and bouts of insomnia. None of those nagging problems mattered when he was inebriated, content, and at home. So, in some sense at least, he had not prevaricated when saying that they didn’t exist on his personal radar. Though giving an admission of these troubles might have helped him to be diagnosed more correctly, overall.
He had long ago given up on seeking the comfort of human companionship, or contact. Being blitzed and alone was enough to make him feel glad to still be alive.
At the physician’s office, closer to Lake Erie, he found a seat by the receptionist’s window. The wait time was far longer than specified, officially 15 minutes in duration. But he was used to the delay in processing. When called to an exam room, he smiled and shuffled along with his walking sticks.
The attendant must have been somewhat amused by his appearance, a sort of mash-up between Santa Claus and David Allan Coe. He had not seen a barber in years, and never used his razor. Various shades of gray and white infused his facial hair. He was oddly pale, tanned, and crimson, in alternate bands of exposure.
When the doctor arrived, in her white coat, she was predictably cheerful and stern at the same time.
“How have you been, Mr. Lincoln? Any falls at home? Any new issues to report?”
He had been losing sensation in his extremities for the past few months. Getting up from a chair meant calling upon God for mercy and grace. Lately, his legs and feet burned as if he had been out in the sun for too lengthy of a stay. Yet he did not complain.
“I’m great, getting plenty of things done at home. One of my neighbors is about the same age, and in a similar condition to myself. We could almost be brothers. And he will come around sometimes to hustle a beer, and complain about being bored. Can you imagine that? Being bored? That’s never a worry for me as I’m at my desk every morning. And out on the porch, every afternoon! I’m good with that!”
Returning to his car was a chore. He counted every step along the hallway, through the clinic lobby, and down their curved sidewalk. Getting behind the wheel involved grabbing the roof with his right hand, while holding the door jam for leverage, and swinging his ample body into position. Once that task had been accomplished, he sat still for a moment, just to catch his breath.
A reminder card was in his T-shirt pocket. Three months until the next appointment. Three months until he would once again act healthy, well-adjusted, and sociable. Three months until he would attempt to hide the progress of Father Time in breaking down his faculties. Three months until he would hobble down his access ramp at home, and brave the uncertainty of a world in which he was no longer a willing participant.
Three months of pork rinds, cheeses, beef smokies, pickles, and adult refreshments that tingled his nose and throat.
Three months of being neglected, but happy.
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