Well, it's happened; old age has found me. Worst than that however, I accept this and embrace it, (albeit feebly). Sigh.
Old is a tough thing to be and in reality, old and healthy is a tougher thing to be. Somewhere between 46 and 56 old age caught up to me. There I was, just about a two months ago, thinking, "Gee, this age of 56 isn't too awful bad." I mean, heck, I can't run anymore and throwing anything, forget it. Then it hit me: I'm now that guy I used to make fun of in front of the Publix talking to his friend about "the good old days" and "Remember when??". What the hell happened???
Actually, I think I know. You see, the doctor told me earlier this week that my spinal arthritis is 'extreme' and that it won't get any better. She said, "We can slow it down, but short of that, it's here to stay." Well lucky me. "It seems, (she went on), that C4 and C5 in your spine are fused and C6 and C7 have bone spurs on either side, causing the nerve endings to be pinched. This will, she continued, cause you radiating pain down your arms and legs for the rest of your life."
Thanks Doc. What an uplifting report. Any other good news? As if on cue, well it seemed there was; the prednisone that I was given this past week which worked incredibly well can't be taken for any length of time, so I can take an over the counter medicine instead. She says it may work pretty well, but then again it may not. There's always the option of a shot directly into my neck that will help for a period of time. I didn't ask what the period of time was. At that point I didn't care.
It's so sad. One day you can run and jump and kneel and squat and then seemingly the next day you are ambling instead of running, getting someone else to jump and kneel for you and squatting is something you now do at 3:00am when Mother Nature calls on the hotline, (if you know what I mean). Forget picking things up that weigh more than ten pounds. Heck, you'd be better off trying to push a Buick from here to Detroit. And while I'm on the subject, is it some cruel joke that picking things up causes farting? And when did my knees start to crack like the first hit off a brand new Louisville Slugger when I either bend OR straighten them? It isn't fair I tell you. When I was about seventeen my father said, (he was in his fifties), "Son, in my mind I can still do all the things I could when I was twenty, but now my body just won't do them anymore." He looked sort of puzzled, sort of meloncholy. When he said it, I laughed. I noticed he didn't. He didn't even acknowledge my chuckle. He just stood there, frozen in the moment.
Today I am writing this to say, "I'm sorry Dad. I didn't truly know what you were saying. I would have never laughed had I known that sometime either that day or a day in the past or even one coming in the future, that you hurt, doing something you always could do before. I understand now. I understand the guts and humble it took to admit to not only yourself, but to the rest of the world that you weren't the person you once were; that you were no longer reaching the standards that you set for yourself on a daily basis and met with some sort of regularity. Furthermore, I am starting to understand just what fortitude it took to not complain and gripe every time you ached and hurt and what class it must have taken to not comment when someone smiles or even laughs at your attempt to be who you were. Dad, I'm sorry. You were a true hero to me. Honest.
Oh yeah, you still are..."
