A message to you young folks. (Anyone under 70.)

If you are as lucky and blessed as I am, and you become an octogenarian, this is for you.

Getting old is not for sissies.

If you now have some modesty and enjoy the privacy of your body, get over it. The medical community is gonna have at you in short order.

Biology 101. As you age, organs become tired. Sometimes they give up.

Here’s me as an example.

I’ll turn 87 this month, Lord willin’. I’ve had a pacemaker/defibrillator for over 10 years. It is now totally controlling my heart rate. I am living better electrically.

In a couple years, again, Lord willin’, I will need a new battery. That’s a routine (if there is such a thing) surgical procedure. Small incision in left chest. Remove device, the size of a pack o’ Luckies. Remove and replace battery. Reinsert. Close. That’s every five years or so.

As a colon cancer survivor (key word: Survivor) who had a potload of radiation and chemo to earn that word, I’m a frequent flyer with my GI doc. I’ll leave that organ failure there. More detail is TMI.

I will thrill, however, amuse, and perhaps disgust or scare you a little, with some info about what happens when your bladder goes on strike.

Yes, I’m also a frequent flyer with my urologist.

That’s the issue that requires a totally humiliating, though quick and simple, monthly urology pit stop.

In addition to my pacemaker, I have a suprapubic catheter installed. Do not confuse supra with super. There ain’t nothin’ super about my device. Supra means “above.” The catheter is installed just above the pubic area, near your belly button.

I do not plan to say any more about how it works. Except to say it is a miraculous device, far better than a common alternative. It’ll be a good Google exercise for some of you.

The humiliation is the monthly catheter change, to prevent infection and ensure everything is working.

Here’s how that goes.

The good news is that it is quick.

2 PM appointment. Got there at 1:45. Called in at 1:50. Done by 2:10.

Ninety percent of the work is done by the urology tech. They are great and very professional.

The tech calls you from the busy waiting area. You walk back to the inner sanctum. Step on the scale. (I’ve lost some unneeded weight, so that’s good news.) Then you go to the “procedure” room.

Sit down, but not for long.

“Has anything changed since last procedure? Any problems?”

No.

My favorite tech, an Army vet, then says: “OK, you know the drill. Drop your drawers and get on the gurney. I’ll be right back.”

At least she gave me direction. Some just assume I know what to do and walk out.

For some reason, I’m reluctant to “drop my drawers” without direction.

On the gurney there’s a paper cover you can use for some temporary modesty. The tech reviews my file and goes to get my new catheter.

So there you sit.

Breeches, including Depends, down at your ankles. I told you it was humiliating.

Then all of a sudden: she’s baaack.

You lay back on the gurney, at least somewhat exposed. She prepares to remove the old catheter.

“OK, hold your breath.”

“Ooh.”

It doesn’t hurt. But it’s no fun either.

And the final step. Insert the new one.

Hold your breath again.

Second slight punch in the stomach.

It’s in. Balloon inflated. Good for another month.

“You’re done. I’ll get your next appointment. Nurse Wanda will come in and do her song and dance. Then you can go.”

She’s right. Nurse Wanda comes in. Asks how I’m doing. Everything working OK. Yes. See you in four weeks. Tech hands me the appointment card.

This will probably be my routine for a lifetime.

Small price to pay to stick around.

Enuf.