Gray Anatomy

Sometimes a few tears can wring the sadness from a soul.

The times when I’ve been able to cry for myself are rare, but I can still be touched by beauty and the pain that others must bear, so I sought out this song by a favorite artist. And as I listened and the tears welled, I felt the veils lift, and found the clarity that I was seeking.

I’m not done yet.

I’ve been spinning and toiling for weeks, uncertain of how much more I can bear. And now I have my answer.

Bring it.

I suffered few difficulties during my drug trial, but increasing discomfort and occasional pain along my side over the last few months had convinced me that my last test might be the most telling. And it did have some color to add, but not in the way I expected.

A fair number of participants in this experimental study develop gallstones, and I was persuaded that I was to be so burdened. Alas, in a ubiquitous trait that all men possess in matters of anatomy, I was off by a few inches.

My liver’s decided to add a chapter to my ongoing drama. Apparently, I have liver cysts, and this trial has made them worse.

As conditions go, liver cysts are relatively benign, but I’m to see yet another specialist soon. Most people who have them remain as ordinary as pumpkin pie*, but liver cysts can cause trouble, and I appear to have several textbook symptoms. Over the last few months, I’ve found myself skipping meals just to keep my equilibrium. I’ve had a few instances when the pain made me stop what I was doing, so I have noticed them.

Insert your favorite cuss here, since I want to keep this post PG-13.

I don’t have to dig too deeply to know why the news bothers me. Two sisters have undergone abdominal surgery in the last few years, and both have suffered horribly with deep infections that have knocked them flat. And these are two seriously tough women.

After a car accident earlier this year, I want to avoid further trauma. I want to be strong for the main event — for neurosurgery in the New Year.

So there it is. The reason for my malaise. Frankly, the thought of back-to-back surgeries scares the bejesus out of me. But I know that I’m looking too far ahead, that I need to focus on this day, this week. I haven’t even seen the specialist yet, for Christ’s sake. I need to get myself ready for whatever the next year brings, working one step at a time. I won’t be much good to anyone if anxiety breeds incompetence or an inability to face the truth.

In a perverse way, these tribulations are convincing me to unfurl my sails, to turn windward and let the storm carry me where it will. The migraines have been so overwhelmingly relentless since August that I’m beginning to long for surgery, for anything that offers even the hope of relief.

But there’s more at work here, not just a fear of future pain. The miasma of lost opportunity has also been potent. I’ve been shaken by the feeling that my time has passed. At my age, and with my financial circumstances, I won’t get many chances to grasp the brass ring.

A friend, no doubt trying to be helpful, recently said so what? If you end your days as ordinary man, having accomplished little, you’ll still have been alive, and the world can be a beautiful place.

Yeah, well, fuck that.**

I’m not going to stop trying to be more than I am, to find some vital — or desperate —synergy that will produce something that outlives me. Maybe Kristina and I will have a family. Maybe it will be a book that a few readers will love. Maybe I will play a small role in averting the global warming disaster that will be visited upon our offspring if we don’t embrace sustainability. Maybe I’ll just donate a kidney to a friend so she can live a long life with her children and grandchildren.

Sometimes a few tears can wring the sadness from a soul.

_________________________

*Kristina, on the other hand, makes an extraordinary pumpkin pie.

** Damn, lost the PG-13 rating.