Yesterday I was outside, in the beautiful weather that finally arrived here on Whidbey island, remodeling the counter tops for the kitchen. I felt something physical, and I wondered if I had taken my medication. So I stopped. I thought. I thought some more. The picture of it was fairly vivid, the physical sensation of it going down my throat. But was that from the day before? I couldn’t remember.
Somewhere I knew I had one of those daily dispenser devices. So I dug it out, and started filling it, WHAM! Did I feel old….
Which is partially true. I’m somewhere past my twentieth celebration of being 29. Here I am taking a daily medication, and not remembering whether I had done so or not. My little caveat is that I am not accustomed to taking a medication daily, and really would rather not be doing so. Which is why I was so lousy at taking them when first given them.
It’s about dying really. The truth is, every breath I take gets me closer to being dead. One of them will actually be the last one. When I hear that Thomas Kincaide died at age 54 of natural causes, I say WTF!? Then I say “bullshit.” Poor lifestyle choices is more like it. But it doesn’t matter. My mom died when she was younger than me, call it natural causes if you like, she smoked like a chimney, and back then they diagnosed it as “massive coronary.” I think it was something different, like SAH, which presents the exact symptoms that were told to me. Including elevated BP, that just keeps elevating. Regardless, she died, and I have lived longer, and now I have high blood pressure.
One thing I have taken to doing over the last half-year is visualizing my own death, which of course is a fantasy model. I can’t predict how or when it will happen. At some point though, I will be permanently separated from all whom I love and maybe some of them love me, everything I own, all I have done, from this very reality. All of my attachments, regrets, yearnings. Wow. All of that can rushing in yesterday as I was cutting my pills to distribute my weekly med requirements.
I could end up in a nursing home. That thought scares me. It brings up the need to write a will for crying out loud I’m not that old! I can look at all the negatives and say, “Yea, I want out.” I can look at the positives and say, “No, I want to stay.” I cannot escape however, that one day it will happen. It might be one of those loved-ones-all-around lying in bed peacefully I’ve-said-what-I-need-to-say-resolved-all-my-regrets type of movie deaths. Or a drunk might pop me on the highway. So I do the fantasy thing in the morning, dealing with the emotions of the pain and suffering that surround our western views of death.
So I’m still in this prison cell, kicking and resisting being here. But here I am. The feeling was powerful no doubt, and it’s not like I have no recourse. Change my diet, exercise patterns, and I might not need the medication. But those are somewhat my rationalizations to not admit that I am in this place at this time. I can no longer afford to not take care of myself. I am however, still vulnerable to dying, every breath a reminder.
Can’t change that, can’t control that. I have yet to relax into it.