De(Fe)Ciency

Welp.

I might be dying.

I know, we all are, right?  Kind of a raw deal.  I should have seen the signs.  A month ago, an 80-year-old lady in the coffee shop I frequent looked at me one morning and said, "You look tired."

For the past several months, I'd been getting fatigued much sooner than usual when playing outside with Luke.  I chalked it up to gaining a few pounds and getting older.

Then I had my yearly health risk assessment.  My iron was 20.  That's micrograms per deciliter.  The minimum "normal" level for an adult male is 60.  I was immediately referred to a hematologist.

Let the tests begin.  More needles.  A urine sample.  And the questions.  My God, the questions.

Have you changed your diet?  How did your grandparents die?  Do you have a family history of cancer?  Have you ever questioned or criticized the President, the state of Israel, or AIPAC, or propagated Israel's involvement in the killing of JFK?  

That last one seemed a bit odd.

Long story short, I have three doctor's appointments scheduled this week, as well as a two-and-a-half hour iron transfusion at a cancer treatment center.  And I am supposed to begin giving myself B12 injections.  

It's weird when your body just stops doing what it's supposed to do.  Like my check engine light is on, but I can't just plug in my on board diagnostic scanner to see what code it gives.

On a postive note, I've finally pulled ahead in the perpetual argument of who's more tired with Mrs. Bone.

Her:  "I was up twice with the kids last night."
Me: "Honey, my ferritin level is seven."

There's no comeback for that.  Game, set, match: Bone.

Although I think she's taken a slight lead in the high blood pressure sweepstakes.

Getting older.  Not always a nonstop joyride.  Still kinda partial to it over the only other known alternative.