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.