A favorite card game when I was a kid was Knucks, in which the
non-losing players took the full deck and one by one either scraped or, if they
were gentler souls, tapped the loser's knuckles for the number of points she
lost by. And there could be many losing
points. If they drew blood, you held your fist up in triumph. Rocks, scissors, paper was also a particular
hit – literally. My older sister Lee and
I were fond of a car game where we pummeled each other’s arm until one or the
other gave in. (I think our parents encouraged it because we were quiet until
either victory or defeat.) Pain was part
of the whole growing up game. Climbing
rocks, hurling snow and Dodge balls, tackling each other, spinning around until
you threw up. We baked in the sun, until
we could peel off our Noxzema-wreaking skin. Very satisfying.
As young adults, pain on a more intense level became the source of major bragging rights – running a marathon, cross fit, basic training, hot yoga, labor. The body recovered, it healed.
When we were young pain had a focus, an end, and, sometimes, a
reward. You crawled up a rock and reached the top of a mountain. You were hurled to the ground but you made
the touchdown. You twisted yourself into
plow position or Wheel and achieved yogic bliss. Your body was an earthquake
and then the baby came out. Acute
pain. Ouch and over. Joy
Nothing fabulous happens to your body as it ages. Pain is now the unexpected random result of
the body's sloppy disintegration into a chaotic mess, collapsing against the
ends of its own nerves, sending signals of discomfort to the brain. (I use the word “discomfort” the way your
dentist uses it. You know what I mean.) Muscles
lose tone and are less able to contract both because of changes in their tissue
and in the nervous system (even with regular exercise). The skin loses elasticity. Bones become brittle. The joints break down as well. The spine starts curling in and many of us
begin to stoop. We start walking more
slowly, the arms dangling rather than swinging.
I think many Baby Boomers didn’t think it would happen to
them, propped up as we were with meditation, organic vegetables, excellent skin
creams, and a delusional self-confidence.
Years ago, a then-young woman, a beautiful blonde Columbia professor
said to me, “You know we’ll never get old or forgotten. By virtue of our large numbers, advertisers
will keep us young forever.” She wasn’t really right about advertisers preserving our
youth (although I just Googled her and she still looks great. Annoying).
But, she was right about the number of Olds. Except for my kids and
grandkids, most of my friends, in fact most of the people I see around town,
are slow, crooked walkers, stiff risers, with slumpy shoulders, saggy abdominals,
and faces frozen in stunned surprise by this unexpected world, now shimmering
with aches and pain.
After I wrote the above, I stopped, trying
to figure out how to end this damn entry without sounding dismal and
whiney. I got up and went to the john
(TMI?), where I like to ponder life. Without coming to any conclusion about my blog, I stood up in a very wrong
way, and something within my knee clicked and shifted. Pain flashed a sharp red stoplight. I couldn’t walk. I called Michael who helped
me hobble to bed. Off to the ER the next morning for a diagnosis
of sprained ligament and the gifts of crutches and a knee brace. It was Christmas Eve. I wasn’t crazy about the presents, but I liked
the irony. I now could finish my blog.
With the brace, crutches, naproxen, and
the occasional fabulous tub bath, I hardly had any pain, just awkwardness and a
bout of self-pity, which lasted long enough for me to yell at Michael for not
serving me as much as I felt I deserved.
And then the realization followed that this won’t be the last event of this type,
and I need to figure out how to do this without becoming crazy, mean, and
bitter. So it’s fitting that I stop
writing, and start creeping about the kitchen on Christmas Day, propping myself
up, while trying to cook soup for a couple of old (in the best sense of the
word) friends, who are coming up bearing smoked salmon. And, I guess that’s the lesson. How can we cook as long as possible for our
old friends, wobbling about, while working through pain’s last game and making it a celebration. Ouch and onward.
