Life is a sitcom. That sitcom has some truths that go along with it when you are an 85-year old husband, father, granddaddy, great granddaddy, owner of an historic condo unit, retired Air Force officer, all around good person (or try to be), and story teller.

And, by the way, my pacemaker/defibrillator controls my heart rate. So I’m living better electrically. In about 8 months I will get a new battery. That’s another outpatient surgery. Got that, Christine? (She’s my designated driver. Lucky her.) My goal is to wear out a record number of batteries.
What does that mean for this daily sitcom called life? Here’s an example.

When I arrive at the Wal-Mart parking lot in a nice close-in handicap parking spot. I still have to walk about 200 feet to the door. When I get outta the car, I need to stop and maybe bend over a bit to let Sparky (my pacemaker) know I’m now walking upright. That can worry friends and strangers that see me bent over and not walking. “You ok, sir?” “Need a hand, sir?” Asks the nice passers-by. “I’m fine,“ I respond, which is at best a half truth. I’m missing lots of organs, but I’ve got work-arounds that are keeping me around for awhile.
Inside the store, I’m fine. I can lean on my shopping cart until I get back to my car outside.
When I go out to do errands, I look for drive throughs cause getting in and out is always a challenge.
My youngest granddaughter, Caroline will never live down her comment to me a few years ago, when I was valiantly climbing with her, the many, many, many steps to the base of the Statue of Liberty, “Granddaddy, I don’t know CPR.“
I frequently tell the young’uns to watch me closely. I’m a preview of coming attractions for them. Enuf