Wednesday 30 December 1998
Pic of the day: Birthday present.
My throat is still sore, and has been for a few days. Luckily
I don't seem to have fever. The strep bacteria here in Norway
have mutated into a deadly variant that is killing people in a
macabre way, eating them alive. So strep throats are not quite
the shrugging matter it once was. But it's still not a major
cause of death, not even compared to lifestyle diseases which
could have been easily avoided by a slightly healthier lifestyle.
A sizable part of the population succumbs to over-eating, over-
drinking, over-smoking and over-stressing. A slightly more
religious lifestyle could crank up the life expectancy of
our population noticeably. Of course, you'd still be just as
dead when you finally die.
My father had a quote, I cannot remember from whom. In English
it would be something like: "When a man is past 30, it's like he's
walking underneath a mountainside. He is no longer sure of his life
any day." The picture was quite understandable to me, since I grew
up near just such a steep mountain side, where boulders could fall
down at any time. As a kid I would not only ignore this, but even
climb in the vertical cliffs where goats feared to tread. Now I
wonder how I've survived this far, if not by a series of minor
miracles.
Those who are old today, grew up in a time where diseases struck
cruelly and seemingly at random. They lost friends and often
brothers or sisters to tuberculosis, diphteria and other diseases
who are today easily avoided by vaccination. It must be peculiar
for them to see young people today gamble with their lives through
smoking, drunk driving, unprotected sex with strangers and other
thoughtless risky behavior. (Of course, the older generations
probably did this too, given the opportunity. But that's a long
time ago.)
Macabre diary today. But that's what I feel like, so take it or
leave it. It will probably be more lighthearted tomorrow - if I'm
alive to write it, that is ...
Visit the Diary Farm for the diaries I've put out to pasture until they
buy the farm:
November 1998