I'm Sick Of It

After my latest stint in illness prison, I got to thinking about how many times I've come out the other side of sickness a little weaker physically, but with more perspective on my mortality.





Now, I wasn't gonna die, nor do I believe I will ever die, but when I get sick, I think about how I wouldn't have made it if not for medical science, antibiotics, and anatomical research. If I had lived in the 19th century, I would have died at 22 from unclean drinking water or a bad case of candle-hand. But I'm alive in the present day, so the point is moot.





The mind/body connection is fascinating to me. I usually get anxious at the start of an illness, observing the indicators of imminent despair and panicking about how long I'll be fucked. I purchase the provisions I'll need once the symptoms go full blast, and worry about whether or not I'll need to see a doctor. But once the sickness takes hold of my body, I accept it. Like most things, the buildup is worse than the event. All I have to do is medicate myself so I'm not terribly uncomfortable, and just wait. That part has become easier over the years, and I wonder if that's how old people cope. Health-crisis-cruise-control kicks in automatically after having been through enough rough shit to know what to expect.





Sometimes I think about the number of weeks I'm out of service in a typical year, and how many more sick days I'll spend during my lifetime, knowing that I'll get through them all somehow, until I don't. It's rather amazing, the amount of time spent nursing this carcass back to health.

But then, as a typical neurotic Jew, I worry about my body's elasticity. My eyes are getting worse, same with my stomach, but my brain is getting sharper with experience. Or at least more adept at pattern recognition and getting a better grip of what to expect. That's the trade off, I guess. People seek the advice of the village elder for a reason, and it's not to admire his wrinkles.





Lately, I've been imagining a scenario where I've been shot and about to die. When I think about how I'd like my last moments to go, what would comfort me is the presence of a person, any person, whose eyes I could look deeply into, hold their hand, and let go. I'd reach out to anyone at that moment. It could be my worst enemy, or a bum, or the guy who shot me. Any human connection would be welcome.

I have a fear of dying alone in a car or having a heart attack late at night on the sidewalk, without anyone around, clutching my chest with one hand, reaching out with the other for contact. That's probably why people believe in Jesus - so they won't have to worry about dying alone, even if they do. Once again, the buildup is worse than the event itself. They assuage their fears about death by believing that the Magical Emperor of Sky World will take their hand and guide them into paradise.




What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I'm Jewish and I had bronchitis last week.