Body Language
For the past few weeks, I’ve tried to talk to my body. My body, of course talks to me all the time—a twinge here, a stiff shoulder there, a finger unwilling to bend when I want it to… Ever since the loss of vision in my left eye, there’s been a problem with both depth perception and balance, so I move slowly and gingerly now, like the aging man I am. I thought perhaps, if my body and I could engage in an adult conversation, I might learn a thing or two about the state of my health and my putative future.
First, I apologized for the mistreatment and thoughtlessness I’ve displayed over the decades. I told my body I deeply regretted the years of drinking and drugs, the time I jumped off a roof while playing frisbee under the influence, the two motorcycle accidents, the overeating, the tons of deep-fried foods and preservative-laden meats, the abundance of sugar, the studied and willful ignoring of fresh fruit and vegetables in favor of Chef Boyardee ravioli. I atoned for neither brushing my teeth nor flossing twice a day as I should, even as I went way too deep in my ears with Q-tips. I also said I was sorry for my years of addiction to Kool filter-less cigarettes and, later, Carter Hall pipe tobacco.
I tried to make amends for no longer exercising. Years ago, I practiced martial arts three times a week, walked everywhere and taught inline skating. No more.
My body, I presume, paid me the courtesy of listening, so I decided it was perhaps time to unload some deep resentments. I kept the biggest one for last, and enumerated ills I’d undergone in the past half-century.
Why Bell’s Palsy, the silly virus that paralyzed the left half of my face and made me feel like Quasimodo? And what of the sciatica that led me to an emergency room at three in the morning? Were both those problems really necessary? What about male pattern baldness which, if not a disease, is certainly harmful to my vanity. And by the way, I dislike the fact that I am on my second set of caps. Teeth, I know, don’t last forever, but I thought caps did. They do not, and they’re stupidly expensive.
And then, of course, there’s the biggie, cancer.
I’ve been told there’s a strong likelihood that my cancer is the result of years of smoking, even though I gave up tobacco in 1998. Cancer, oncologists say, does not wear a Bulova and is not a respecter of time. I’ve been living with bladder cancer for more than twelve years now, and my 32nd surgery is days away, as the disease has recently become notably more aggressive, resisting all attempts to dislodge it. Why is that?
A couple of weeks ago, I filled out the Death Clock questionnaire. You may have heard of the Death Clock. By entering a few numbers—age, weight, BMI, gender and such, an algorithm can predict your estimated time of death. I was curious, answered all the questions, and was told I’d died December 23rd of last year. So I guess I’m living on borrowed time.
I informed my body of this interesting fact but was met by silence. I suppose there are things my body doesn’t like to talk about…
First, I apologized for the mistreatment and thoughtlessness I’ve displayed over the decades. I told my body I deeply regretted the years of drinking and drugs, the time I jumped off a roof while playing frisbee under the influence, the two motorcycle accidents, the overeating, the tons of deep-fried foods and preservative-laden meats, the abundance of sugar, the studied and willful ignoring of fresh fruit and vegetables in favor of Chef Boyardee ravioli. I atoned for neither brushing my teeth nor flossing twice a day as I should, even as I went way too deep in my ears with Q-tips. I also said I was sorry for my years of addiction to Kool filter-less cigarettes and, later, Carter Hall pipe tobacco.
I tried to make amends for no longer exercising. Years ago, I practiced martial arts three times a week, walked everywhere and taught inline skating. No more.
My body, I presume, paid me the courtesy of listening, so I decided it was perhaps time to unload some deep resentments. I kept the biggest one for last, and enumerated ills I’d undergone in the past half-century.
Why Bell’s Palsy, the silly virus that paralyzed the left half of my face and made me feel like Quasimodo? And what of the sciatica that led me to an emergency room at three in the morning? Were both those problems really necessary? What about male pattern baldness which, if not a disease, is certainly harmful to my vanity. And by the way, I dislike the fact that I am on my second set of caps. Teeth, I know, don’t last forever, but I thought caps did. They do not, and they’re stupidly expensive.
And then, of course, there’s the biggie, cancer.
I’ve been told there’s a strong likelihood that my cancer is the result of years of smoking, even though I gave up tobacco in 1998. Cancer, oncologists say, does not wear a Bulova and is not a respecter of time. I’ve been living with bladder cancer for more than twelve years now, and my 32nd surgery is days away, as the disease has recently become notably more aggressive, resisting all attempts to dislodge it. Why is that?
A couple of weeks ago, I filled out the Death Clock questionnaire. You may have heard of the Death Clock. By entering a few numbers—age, weight, BMI, gender and such, an algorithm can predict your estimated time of death. I was curious, answered all the questions, and was told I’d died December 23rd of last year. So I guess I’m living on borrowed time.
I informed my body of this interesting fact but was met by silence. I suppose there are things my body doesn’t like to talk about…
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