Friday, July 24, 2015

Dying by degrees

My mother lived with me in her final years.  She died at age 97.  One day she complained that she was cold, "I'm dying by degrees," she quipped.  I know what she means.  I'm not cold - far from it - it's 90 degrees in the shade without a breeze anywhere, but sometimes I feel like I have to cede yet another body part to old age.

For weeks I've had pain in my neck due to a pinched nerve.  It's affected my writing as my hands are weak and painful.  I've had a good massage and that has helped, but the problem never really goes away.  Then there's my hip and knee.  Good grief.  Complaining doesn't help, but it does bring a kind of visceral empathy for others.

I really can't complain: I have no chronic disease, no cancer, no heart issues, no liver or autoimmune things going on.  I just hurt.  And I guess that means I'm still alive.

So, I think I'll go glaze some pots and maybe later I can write a bit.  At least I can read.  And that not nothing.

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