There are traitors in our midst, guys. Closer than our best friends, closer than our children, closer than our spouses–as close as close can be. The betrayers are our bodies.
A friend of mine collapsed while jogging recently, and it turned out one of his arteries was clogged. Another buddy discovered blood in his urine, and now he’s facing the likely loss of his bladder.
A third had recently slimmed down and, after Lasik surgery, was able to go without glasses for the first time in three decades. He was felled in his kitchen. The culprit: his heart.
So I found myself standing in the bathroom, wondering which part of my body would betray me: My liver? My prostate? My brain? It was almost as if I could hear a clock ticking, a timepiece set for some future moment when my questions would be answered. To my chagrin.
As men, we grow up acquainted with pain. We run headlong into each other on the football field. We muscle refrigerators up back-porch stairs, showing off for girlfriends and wives. We know what a dislocated finger looks like on our own hand.
We also know that, as we grow older, our bodies start to wear down. Where once we blazed down the court, now we lumber. Our fastball now comes in at change-up speed. We grunt every time we stand up.
But this is different.
Looking at what has happened to Walter, John, Bob and any number of guys, I can see that it’s only a matter of time until this body of mine stabs me in the back. Yours will too.
With a bluntness that’s hard to ignore, I’ve come to realize that I’ve been sharing existence with a sleeper cell, a terrorist hit man who is primed, as soon as the triggering message is sent, to do me in.
For more than half a century, this body has been Old Reliable, my means of flight, my pleasure, my presence in the world–me, in other words–with nary a complaint beyond an achy shoulder and a stomach that no longer can stomach fried onions.
But I’m aware that the era of minor injuries, little more than irritations, is nearing an end.
The Big One is looming ever larger–or maybe several Big Ones.
At some point, maybe tomorrow, maybe next year, maybe 20 years from now, my body is going to pop a gasket.
It could all be over in a second, or I could end up facing a series of increasingly debilitating health problems.
My kids, just entering young adulthood, act as if they will never grow old, never have to face a shutdown of the vehicle of blood and flesh that carries them around. I know better.
A stroke, a heart attack, one of the 57 varieties of cancer–who knows? But something big and something bad is coming. And when it arrives, BenGay and ibuprofen aren’t going to be enough to make things better.
Of course, on the plus side, by coming to this realization now, I may be a physical wreck waiting to happen, but, psychologically, at least, I’ve fully recovered from the delusions of youth.
That’s healthy, right?
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