Falling apart

You hear all the time how, after a period of time together, pets and their owners start to resemble one another. Sweetie swears that I'm starting to look like furry dependant the elder; I think I have more in common with my '97 Civic: Cracked windshield, leaking fluids, squeaks and rattles galore. Needs to be traded in and replaced with something newer, faster, and sexier but just won't give up and die.

"And you know that you're over the hill when your mind makes a promise that your body can't fill."

–Little Feat, "Old Folks Boogie"

I'm not looking for sympathy at all, but there are times when I can really relate to that old (there's that word again) Rolling Stones line, "What a drag it is getting old."

Yesterday was kind of like that. There I was, sitting on the table with my 24-year-old internal image of myself, being poked and pulled and prodded, and being told, in essence, that all the disks in my neck are shot. Dried out, scrunched together, grinding against one another like an arthritic 65-year-old's.

My driver's license says I'm 5'9", but somewhere along the line I've shrunk to more like 5'7" (and a half). I guess I know why.

"We can try stretching exercises to open up the spine," the PT was telling me, "but the fact is that your range of movement is diminished, and your posture when you're riding your road bike is pretty much the worst position for your neck problems."

The ghost of Old Yeller passed through the room and left the hair standing on my worn-out neck.

Arliss Coates: Why did you shoot Rosemary?
Travis Coates: She was sick.
Arliss Coates: Well, you were sick. How come we didn't shoot you?
Travis Coates: That was different.

"...cortisone injections?"

"What?" Great. Now my mind was wandering off.

"Have you had any cortisone injections? In your neck?"

"Actually, I was sort of hoping the PT would work and I wouldn't have to."

Arliss, go fetch the rifle.

For me, the bottom line is that no one gets out alive, and in the grand scheme of things I'm unbelievably lucky.

I watch some of my friends with MS having to accept help sometimes just to feed themselves without slinging their food all over the walls. I see Sweetie's frustration every time she has to go the long way around to get into some building that's only grudgingly ADA compliant. There are people out there who didn't survive their cancers. There are people so depressed that they can't drag themselves from the sofa to the kitchen for a drink of water.

When I was a teenager, I developed this notion that I would die when I was 40 years old. I don't mean the general sense that, dude, that's, like, really old. I just had this premonition that 2000 was when I'd check out for good.

I didn't, and now I kind of feel like I'm living on my bonus life. I try to count my blessings and move on, doing my best to work with what God has given me and do it without too much complaint.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to replace the piece of wire that's holding my tailpipe on.

Random misfire

On another blog I was visiting this morning, I noticed the topic "Layers of the Onion". My first thought: "Kinky. Talk about making whoopie that would bring tears to your eyes."

I really should seek help.