Sunday, March 9, 2014

I've always wanted people to call me "Iron Woman."

                                                     

Even us trailing-edge Baby Boomers can't elude our age forever. For the past 9 years I've received a series of annoying (if not alarming) medical diagnoses. I'm not any more mortal than anyone else, so far as I know, but it is still not a happy occasion to have to factor in the annual cost of maintenance prescriptions when planning one's fiscal year. Phooey on that, say I.

Having done my due diligence, research shows that pretty much everything I've been prescribed is fairly new. No one in Big Pharma is experimenting on me -- those unproven meds are pricey. In other words, if it doesn't kill you with side effects, it will make you poor.

No, most of the stuff I'm having to take has been on the market long enough to bring the cost down and avoid any nasty surprises. It's ho-hum stuff, for the most part.

Still, I get nostalgic thinking about all the conventional wisdom that dominated my childhood. My mother's favorite remedy for almost everything was milk (or "milt" as she liked to say when she lapsed into baby-talk for my sake). I really didn't like milk, and that seemed to doubly convince her that she was on the right track in prescribing it for me. I guess there's some logic there: Kool-Aid and Coca-Cola never cured anything, and I liked those just fine.

I'm glad no one ever told my mother about cod-liver oil.