Aug 2022
As the rain teems outside the bathroom window, pelting like bullets against the double glaze,
I look into the mirror and see that huge scar extending around my right side, pink and shiny. It moves independently top to bottom, once cut never to be the same again.
Bulging unnaturally, there is a cannon ball within. Somewhere twixt the decapitated kidney and the sliced pericardium there lies a presence which I can never ignore. Solid and intrusive it inhibits movement and gives perpetual discomfort. It was never there before the operation, it has always been there since.
Gazing up into the 77 year old eyes I hate what I see, where there should be the gleam of victory having vanquished the foe, instead I see the beggarly hallmarks of a victim.
The pallor, the network of suffer lines around the eyes. The lifelessness and ague of expression, the absence of vigour and the lack of will, of endeavor.
Not always is this so.
On good days I spring out of bed with the early light of dawn, smother the awareness of the cannon ball with two Panadol, swallowed with rainwater from the tap, prior to cleaning my teeth.
Striding down the hallway accompanied by the scampering cat, (leading me indelibly toward her bowl for food).
Cracking open the tin box and performing the ritual of the morning pill take… (6 with milk)
A cup of scalding hot tea, strong, sugared, with a touch of milk.
Then off to work with purpose, anesthetized against the ****** thing. Anesthetized against the negativity.
All my life I’ve been physical, proud of my muscular ability to achieve anything I set out to do.
My wife once said to me, “Marshal you never ask yourself whether you can actually do anything… you just do it!”
Those were the days!
Now I attack jobs, on the good days, and convince myself that something of the old spirit remains …and it does, the thighs pump, the hands, dexterously create…. The project grows and the spirit within soars….
Alas, two hours down the track with the cannon ball weighing like a tonne of lead in my gut and the wondrous physicality expired, I haul my weary self up the hill with the sure knowledge that I can no longer hack it.
Somewhere, in the twilight of my days, I have to come to terms with the limitations.
Celebrate the good and accommodate the other.
For I have faced the ****** foe and survived…and for this I must elevate myself....and be supremely and positively, grateful.
For I live and love...For what more can a man ask?
M.
Foxglove@Taranaki, NZ
25 August 2022
I look into the mirror and see that huge scar extending around my right side, pink and shiny. It moves independently top to bottom, once cut never to be the same again.
Bulging unnaturally, there is a cannon ball within. Somewhere twixt the decapitated kidney and the sliced pericardium there lies a presence which I can never ignore. Solid and intrusive it inhibits movement and gives perpetual discomfort. It was never there before the operation, it has always been there since.
Gazing up into the 77 year old eyes I hate what I see, where there should be the gleam of victory having vanquished the foe, instead I see the beggarly hallmarks of a victim.
The pallor, the network of suffer lines around the eyes. The lifelessness and ague of expression, the absence of vigour and the lack of will, of endeavor.
Not always is this so.
On good days I spring out of bed with the early light of dawn, smother the awareness of the cannon ball with two Panadol, swallowed with rainwater from the tap, prior to cleaning my teeth.
Striding down the hallway accompanied by the scampering cat, (leading me indelibly toward her bowl for food).
Cracking open the tin box and performing the ritual of the morning pill take… (6 with milk)
A cup of scalding hot tea, strong, sugared, with a touch of milk.
Then off to work with purpose, anesthetized against the ****** thing. Anesthetized against the negativity.
All my life I’ve been physical, proud of my muscular ability to achieve anything I set out to do.
My wife once said to me, “Marshal you never ask yourself whether you can actually do anything… you just do it!”
Those were the days!
Now I attack jobs, on the good days, and convince myself that something of the old spirit remains …and it does, the thighs pump, the hands, dexterously create…. The project grows and the spirit within soars….
Alas, two hours down the track with the cannon ball weighing like a tonne of lead in my gut and the wondrous physicality expired, I haul my weary self up the hill with the sure knowledge that I can no longer hack it.
Somewhere, in the twilight of my days, I have to come to terms with the limitations.
Celebrate the good and accommodate the other.
For I have faced the ****** foe and survived…and for this I must elevate myself....and be supremely and positively, grateful.
For I live and love...For what more can a man ask?
M.
Foxglove@Taranaki, NZ
25 August 2022
Time has an amazing effect on the subconscious, with age the realization that you are no longer what you were, that your capabilities have been compromised beyond your wildest dreams, leads you to the realm of thought which enables you to put things in perspective.
Things are as they should be....Count now your blessings!
Things are as they should be....Count now your blessings!
