Circle

 One of my favorite crooners in the 70s was the late Harry Chapin.  He became famous for a song, Taxi, and then wrote, prolifically, for ten years until he died in an automobile accident.  Sad day for me when I heard that news.  Among his oeuvre (first time I believe that I have used this word in a sentence) was Circle.  It contains the recurring lyric, All My life's a Circle, Sunrise and Sundown, the moon rolls through the night time til the day break comes around. 

Monday night had to be one of the most depressing evenings of my life.  Two and a half days after falling down a staircase backwards and ramming my back into a wall, I was convinced that I had another long rehabilitation ahead of me. I anticipated the pain in my back would dissipate but it had not.  In fact, that Monday night it was worse than it had been. i could not get into a comfortable position in bed; tried sleeping in a chair without success; couldn't cough without feeling jarring pain, and just couldn't get out of a sense of gloom.  I've often told people--and meant it-- when they were in throes of sadness to "look at the bright side" because there almost always is one.  So I tried telling this to myself and was not persuasive. 

The next day, on Tuesday, I was scheduled to see my doc and I imagined that the xrays she would prescribe would reveal that I had broken a rib when I went unconventionally from the second floor to the first. A trip I had planned, to do some work and also relax would inevitably have to be put on hold.  I tried putting on the Honeymooners, the old 50s tv show, which often buoys my spirits. Did not do the trick. Watched Jeopardy which I'd taped--still could not find the zs.  Eventually I asked Donna if we had a heating pad. She went and got one and I reclined on it, and finally fell asleep.

I was told a few years back when I had to take a medication that the drug could cause mood swings. For the record I hate taking drugs. Except for an aspirin to dull pain when I was playing tennis competitively, I took absolutely nothing until about ten years ago when a doc prescribed two drugs, one for blood pressure and another to combat plaque build up.  I was reluctant to take either. I imagined a conversation my body had with me when I started taking the pills.

Hey, Al, what are you swallowing there.

It's for blood pressure.

No need. We got it Al. Keep exercising, eat something nourishing now and again, and we will take it from there. Don't swallow this poison.

Doc said it will be helpful.

"Doc said it would be helpful." That's the drug companies talking. Trust us in here. We can handle it.

I'm inclined to agree with you, but this is supposed to reduce the chances of stroke. Don't want a stroke..

Son of a bitch. I'm telling you, we got this. You pour this crap into the system and it is going to have an impact.  You're going to get sluggish, not be able to enjoy time.

Maybe.

Listen to us pal. don't burden us with this witch doctor potions disguised as cure alls.  If big pharma, wasn't making a mint on this, you would not be taking it.

Some drugs are helpful.

Maybe, but you are going to get low.

Anyway,  I have been taking the drugs for a while.  And I wonder if getting low or as low as I can get is because of the drugs. 

Or is it because in the last year, four of my contemporaries have died and, concurrently, I have lost my sense of my invulnerability highlighted by not being able to negotiate a staircase without inadvertently testing the laws of gravity.

I had begun to play pickleball and was enjoying it and getting good at it. I'd joined a team. I got a text from the pickleball captain wanting to know when I would be available for a league competition. I had joined the Y, and was back on the elliptical and swimming and even shooting baskets in the gym.   

I got to the doc early. It was my first time meeting with her.  The appointment was supposed to be my annual physical with a new pcp.  She was very thorough.  Examined my back, listened to my lungs and offered what I thought were miraculous conclusions. She did not think I had broken any ribs nor punctured my a lung.  I was delighted but asked why I felt this pain. She said in a monotone, with a heavy dose of duh in it. "Because you fell backwards down eleven steps and smashed into a wall.   You're lucky you did not crack your spine or skull. You can walk. Now, you can practice on the stairs like someone not auditioning for the circus." Or words to that effect.

I took a bunch of xrays.  They came back mostly negative. The radiologist saw something but thinks it is not a big deal so I have to get an MRI to be sure.  However, essentially, I am fine. Not in for a long rehab.

On Tuesday after the doctor's appointment I felt like a tremendous dark cloud had left.. Metaphorically (and actually) the sun came out.  I was told I could take my trip. I did not think of my self as an erstwhile jock relegated to inevitable deterioration.  I went out and walked. I ate a jelly doughnut. Went to the library. Chatted up a librarian. The daybreak came around.

I don't know any longer if I am a glass half full guy.  I don't know if my recurring half empty attitude is a function of the drugs I am taking.  However, I don't think my reaction to the injury was healthy. The world was not coming to an end. There was pizza to eat, sports to watch, books to read, stories to write, embraces to enjoy, intimacy, memories of love and loving. On Monday night none of that had a chance of surfacing and remaining in my head. The fall was  absolutely, horrendous and frightening. It hurt slamming into that wall. I was legitimately embarrassed not to be able to negotiate the stairs. But I was unable to acknowledge that the nighttime would give way to daybreak. The moon does roll through the night time 'til the daybreak comes around.  It is important to remember that. The daybreak comes around.