Missing the Point

Diamond Jim had a tough tax season. I mentioned this to a few people, who inquired about our tax saga. I didn't blog about the serious and significant details. I will tell you three it took until 8 a.m. yesterday to get my accurate taxes. Most people who hear how long it took just say, "find someone else to do your taxes," as if that were my true issue.

The issue is Diamond Jim. He had a tough tax season. He was confused. A lot. And scattered. And not himself. And all sorts of other strangeness that tugs at my heart. His children aren't nearby. Through the advice of another Dear Friend Jim, I believe I found Diamond Jim's son on Linkedin. I sent a message. Later today, I will probably have a painful conversation with this perfect stranger about his father.

Yesterday afternoon, Diamond Jim and I had a very real conversation about the medications he is on. He is part of a disconcerting group of people who just take whatever the doctor says as the Gospel Truth, instead of doing any research or being empowered to take matters into their own hands. I don't understand this. My peers don't understand it either. But we know there are those out there who do it.

When Diamond Jim and I talked about his medications, he said he thought there might be some drug interaction that was causing the problems he has been experiencing for the past few months. He said he mentioned this to the doctor a month ago. He didn't bring it up at this weeks' appointment, but he would say something next month.

No, I replied. Call the doctor right now and ask for this list. Tell him he has until close of business Friday to get this to you. "Can I do that?" he asked me, astonished one could be so bold. When we ended the call, he said he was going to immediately call the doctor. I hope he did so.

Diamond Jim has been with me for 14 years. He isn't only the guy who "does my taxes." He helped me shape my accidental business. He has become my friend. I eat breakfast with him twice a month. My kids call him "Uncle Jim." Polly cleans his house. He calls me when he needs a ride to the airport or to take care of an inpatient procedure. Marty and Buckaroo went with him to Oregon a few years ago and drove a moving truck filled with all of his worldly possessions and brought them back to Mesa.

Sure, someone else can do my taxes. I am certain Diamond Jim isn't planning on doing taxes any more anyway. That isn't my concern. My concern is only Diamond Jim.