The memoirist Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love) has said, “Pretending is demeaning, and it makes you weak and confused, and it’s also a lot of work.”
Life is good. Or is it? On his good days, the old man had been pondering this question – If everybody you love or care about is in trouble, are you really okay?
On his good days, he felt practically wonderful. Except for the pain. He’d had to caution the young redhead about twisting the water bottle lids too tight. Recently come to the conclusion the pain is like a marathon, racing too fast and trying to hold pace as the discomfort grows and the body feels, how shall I put this, the bones feel anguished.
But he could handle that. Except for the occasional girlish squeal when he tried to pick up something at a wrong angle, nothing about this he couldn’t handle.
He’d been handling the stomach problem now for just a couple weeks short of an entire year. You got a problem for that long, are you really taking care of it? Hell, no.
There was nobody to complain to. His cadre composed mostly of folks he’d known as long as sixty years. The old man was actually the youngster, truth be told. One guy had beaten the triumvirate – heart attack, cancer, stroke. Reminds me when Steve Martin got shot and they were him telling how lucky he was to be alive. Lucky is not getting shot in the first place.
Really doesn’t matter what you got. What matters is how you feel. Thus, The Miserability Index. On a scale of one to ten, where are you right now?
Can’t help wondering just how wonderful I’d feel if I actually felt good.
Imagine you just got kicked in the balls. Solid shot. Now hold that thought for three months.
Nauseous maybe a couple minutes a day. Usually in the morning. Just about the time he was getting ready for a five-mile walk. Walked anyway.
Most days, felt great, just absolutely super, for a quarter hour, right around four p.m. Practically danced around the cottage like a young Tommy Tune.
Maybe Bruce Lee. Yeah, Bruce Lee is better.
Arthritis is a pain. That never goes away.
They thought he had testicular cancer. One of those diseases he could spell. He refused to say the words himself. Wouldn’t say those words aloud. Wouldn’t think those words. No sir.
His doctor thought them. Wife cried and hugged him tightly as she went off to work. He knew what she was thinking.
“I’m only going for a test,” he reminded her. She’d had a breast test year ago and they spent the Yuletide awaiting results.
Just before holidays, too. Again. Of course.
First Christmas miracle. Liza is a personable blonde who gently massaged his carrying case and less than three hours later, the results. Second miracle, no two-week wait. Turns out the doctor was worried, real worried. Good news. Third miracle. Spare you the gruesome details, but the old man was no longer – at least not for the next six weeks – a demonic cyclist.
Medicine is such a science and so often the prescription is, stop doing what you’ve been doing. That takes practice.
Christmas Eve. His birthday. To be honest, kinda feels that way. Birthday. Stuff hurts but he’s at about 9.5 TMI. Feels so great, he heads into town to get some supplies. Gets the last parking space. Gets the last cart. Nobody in line for Boar’s Head Italian submarines with banana peppers. Talk about a miracle.
Then the phone rings. The old man had commissioned a miniature oil painting of the young redhead’s all-time favorite canine, The Legendary Miss Dixie. “Painting’s ready.” Ready in time for Christmas. The old man was expecting maybe Valentine’s Day. Wow. Ready already in time for Christmas. Miracle.
Gets better. The artist won’t take any money. “Merry Christmas.”
Bless you. Believe in miracles.
Life is good. It’s also a lot of work.