Wednesday 24 September 2003

Pic of the day: Is it sunset already? Well, yeah, for a lot of people every day. As for me, I don't know. The clouds are too thick right now.

Taste of defeat

Bad digestion day again. Got in a full workday, though, which is good. I spent the evening in a mood of defeat. Well, by my standards at least. It's not like I want to end it all. Then again, I don't need to; it will all end anyway. I know that, in theory. But it is still different to see it this close up and personal.

I've seen old people. I know the body's warranty runs out after a while. But I guess I had expected it to be in my 60es rather than my 40es. I have only to undress to see how wrong I was. When I was young, my skin kinda just stretched all over me unbroken except for the occasional scar from some biking accident, and of course there was an instance or two of acne, as there will be in young people. I mean, how hard can it be to be skin? All you have to do is be there, sweat a little and sprout hair as needed. That was then, this is now. Many of the hairs are gone, replaced by red dots that presumably are inflamed follicles. A couple sores on my legs have refused to heal since last winter (for the youngest). There are still a couple zits, but they are joined by a few warts as well. But most strikingly, there are at least a couple hundred birthmarks that I wasn't born with. Elsewhere, the skin is red from rashes like I'd gone over it with a sanding paper; given the itch, I might just do that one day. To top the grossness, there are a couple outgrowths that look like small skin-covered pieces of meat on a thin stalk, like I'm trying to reproduce the way strawberry plants do. And I'm not fifty yet.

Now evidently my digestive tract has heard the rumors and wants to join in the fun. At least I can hope it is something as harmless as that, and not a bloody cancer. It isn't literally bloody yet, at least, and I guess I can count myself lucky for that. But I doubt I shall ever enjoy a dinner again without rueful anticipation of pain and other discomfort. If I don't become spiritual by choice, then it seems the flesh will shrink away to leave only the mind to enjoy itself – for as long as even that lasts.

And it does, for now. I still have my senses, no more dulled from age than you would expect, and my mind is still with me. I can move my arms and legs with good precision (although the needles seems to come with a smaller eye these days) and also walk around, which I do, an hour or so each day. There's still no sign of diabetes, despite two parents and at least one grandparent having acquired it with age, and despite it being a global pandemic now. And the two times I have had my heart tested (after sudden loss of blood pressure) the doctors seemed rather to envy me than pity me, so I guess it is OK too. Puts me ahead of a lot of people, I guess. And not being able to painlessly digest anything coarser than white bread and jam is still preferable to not having food at all, a dilemma for a couple billion people still from time to time.

OK, I guess I just don't have it in me to stay down. Though I probably will one day, unless my religion proves true. But whether that day is near or far away, I do not know. Hopefully I will know more sometime after the 10th of October.