aging « WillSpirit!

The MR scan result came back with bad news on two fronts. First, it failed to explain the pain shooting down my left arm as something simple and treatable. Second, it showed that a previously normal disk is now protruding to the point of slightly flattening my spinal cord. As you can imagine, this is a discouraging and frightening finding.

Spinal canal stenosis in the neck can become a big problem. It can cause numbness, paralysis, and incontinence. Surgery, though available, is highly risky and entails a long recovery time. It’s not always successful. But as I keep reminding myself, the problem hasn’t gotten to that stage yet. Right now, the only ominous indicator is a gray and white image on a computer screen. No tingling, no weakness, no leakage.

Ah, to live within a frail biological organism. And not within, truly, but as one. We all know our human forms don’t last forever, and with aging we see signs of the inevitable. Granted, not everyone faces such looming problems at age fifty-three. It’s tempting to feel sorry for myself, but that would be short-sighted. Sooner or later we all confront serious difficulties with our bodies. Some expire in infancy due to prematurity or genetic disease. Some succumb to accident, murder, or suicide as young adults. Some confront a diagnosis of lethal cancer in midlife and wither away within months. Some endure to die of old age and its accumulating vulnerabilities. And everything in between happens too.

Just moments ago I watched our eleven pound poodle mix, Ralphy, reclining in front of the wood-burning stove. He looked blissful with his half-closed eyes, ears flopping on the fireside cushion we lay out for the dogs. I feel happy knowing he rests peacefully without worry nibbling away at his serenity. It pleases me to provide safety and comfort for such a darling creature.

Then I extend my perspective. Somewhere, perhaps not far from this little mountain cabin where we take our vacations, a young man and woman are cuddling in front of a similar fire while a frigid storm rages outside. They are freshly in love and holding each other with a mixture of desire and affection. They are not troubled by ragged vertebral columns and endangered nervous systems. They are enjoying youth and all the pleasures it brings, even as they remain ignorant of how transient this vitality will someday seem.

I feel exactly as satisfied envisioning their happiness as I do watching my little dog. If my wife and I had children we’d no doubt be living vicariously through them as they ventured forth in the world and sampled its allurements. In absence of such immediate family, I do something similar by imagining how life keeps marching forward with each young generation. This lessens my concerns about my own future. I see how much bigger the human story is than my own little mix of fortune good and bad.

So much gratitude: for my loving wife, two sweet tiny dogs, a comfortable home and even a vacation cabin. So much pain: shocks down my arm, cramps in my gut, endless aching in my spine. Pleasure and pain. Joy and sorrow. Contentment and regret. On and on and on.

Biology is a dual process of growth and decay. Today my ego can’t help but contemplate an undesired medical result and the deterioration it announces. But my larger mind remains focused on the timeless majesty of life, which keeps cycling through its appointed seasons. There is ruin. There is springtime. And there is springtime among the ruins.

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Who am I fooling?

Myself, mostly. The last piece did the usual intellectual thing and talked about an approach without talking about approaching. What matters is getting close to life, not describing getting close. And right now I feel very far away.

Enough posts lately have catalogued my recent misfortunes; I won’t list them again. Besides, although I’m sure the hardships play into my feelings, they aren’t playing through my thoughts. So what’s causing this sense of detachment and sorrow?

Pain, first of all. Physical discomfort in my neck, left arm, and abdomen. Although I consider myself skilled at using meditation (and not medication) to manage my pain, there are limits. I’ve reached them.

Hopelessness, second of all. With the demise of the acupuncture practice came a great reduction in stress but also the loss of a meaningful project. Sure, I’m slowly preparing a WillSpirit upgrade, which gives me a new focus, but it doesn’t feel as rich and exciting as clinical work.

Acupuncture connected me in a person-to-person way with others. Now my only helping activity is right here on this inconspicuous blog. Although writing gives me some sense of making a difference, we are talking about action at a distance. There is none of the sweetness of treating patients hands-on. I miss that and realize such experience has probably passed from my life forever.

Then comes the fear. With no way of making a living, I’m at the mercy of my disability company and the greater economic system, both of which have proven horribly untrustworthy. This isn’t a new reality, but I can no longer imagine breaking free of it. I feel trapped as the future and old age bear down on me.

And loneliness. I do a poor job of maintaining social contacts. A promising friendship got nipped in the bud when the person in question moved to the opposite coast. Another friendship ended during my manic episode. I value my small social circle, but there’s no denying its narrow circumference. I’ll keep reaching out, but in this mood it’s difficult and it isn’t like I’m much fun to be around.

The mood will lighten eventually, of course, but for now the darkness is deepening. Based on past experience, I know the bleak emotions may get a lot worse before they dissipate. I no longer feel compelled to fix the situation with pills or rash action, but I still feel oppressed.

So for all my talk of behaviorism and acting rather than obsessing about thoughts and feelings (as in the last post), I feel pretty stuck. Yes, I’ll go through all the necessary motions today: an AA meeting, swimming, some errands, a doctor’s appointment. I’ll write this blog post. I’ll walk the dogs. I won’t just lie in bed and feel sad.

But curling up under blankets sounds tempting. I find myself asking how much longer life will last. Like a kid in the back seat of a car, I look forward to the end of this journey. That’s not a happy way to live, and I try to keep from focusing too much on that question, but it’s in the air. My air.

Ever since starting this blog I’ve tried to remain honest. Often it seems like my hard work has paid off and I feel a sense of mastery over my mental state; on those days I write accordingly. But today I feel lost and confused. I wonder if anything substantive has actually changed. Have I just been fooling myself?

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