More than a few people have suggested that it is inaccurate for me to describe myself as being almost middle aged.
I am beginning to think they might be onto something because if I double my current age I’m just short of 114.
Might take some doing alongside a bit of luck for me to hit 114, hell if I am only given as long as my father had I am down to about 18 more years.
But I am not ready nor even close to ready to accept that which is why I push so hard in the gym.
And it is why the ER doc who lectured me last October about how close I came to dying was wrong. I can look back at what I said in Death Didn’t Seem Painful Part 2 and remember every feeling I had and the rage I felt.
It’s all connected to the question of whether I tore my left bicep or just mildly injured it.
I Heard Something Pop
The GM of my gym says I smile broadly but that he sees a deep intensity in me and I nod. I think he is probably being honest, but the cynic in me says this is what he says to many of us.
It is the last Wednesday in January and I am having one hell of a workout. I am focusing on my back and biceps and feeling good.
I am pulling more iron than I have in about 30 years and feel a surge of adrenaline and pride. I worked hard for this.
I hit the last part of the workout and am focused on the preacher curl machine. I tear through the first two sets and decide I am going to see if I can throw another 25 on each arm.
Part of me whispers, ‘that’s a big jump. Try another 10 or 15, be smart.’ But this time vanity overtakes sanity and I start to lift when I feel both of my arms try to quit.
Head and heart decide I can power through at least two reps and I throw my full will into it. The bar comes up two feet and all of a sudden I hear a pop and feel something unusual.
I let go of everything and look at my left arm with anger and disappointment. It has just committed mutiny.
For a moment I stand staring at it trying to figure out if I am seriously hurt. I don’t see any bruising, it is not dislocated, there is no balling of muscle to suggest something is torn but there is pain.
I put my left hand on my right shoulder and use my right to take the weights off of the bar and replace them on their stacks.
Anger
I walk out of the gym, head to my car and then drive home seething with anger at myself. This was a stupid injury and presents an unnecessary obstacle.
Walk into the house, grab three ibuprofen and wait to see how the arm does. Thursday morning rolls around and it still hurts but I am uncertain how bad it is.
The information on Dr. Google isn’t helping me figure it out with the kind of certainty I want. It is uncomfortable and I know if I try to lift anything too heavy it will bark at me but I have pretty good range of motion.
So I decide to wait and see how things progress. It doesn’t hurt enough to prevent me from doing basic tasks nor do I feel an immediate need to pop more ibuprofen.
Friday afternoon I notice a bruise is starting to develop on my inner forearm and decide even though I don’t feel any more pain to hit the urgent care.
I am still pissed with myself about having done something foolish and angry that my body didn’t respond as it has every other time I tried taking a big leap at the gym.
****
They take my vitals at urgent care, confirm the few meds I take and ask about allergies. Doc grabs my arm and starts examining it.
She says she’ll give me something for inflammation and to give it a few more days. ‘If you don’t see a relief in pain you’ll want to go see an orthopedic.
I say thank you and head to the pharmacy to grab my new ‘script and continue a silent dialogue with my arm in which I demand it heal as fast as possible.
Carry The Fire
Aging isn’t for the weak of heart or will. I can accept many things, but the idea that a day may come when I can’t care for myself is intolerable.
It is why I push so hard now so that as time goes by I will always have the ability to do what I need to do for myself.
I won’t live in bubble wrap or avoid everything that might cause harm because that is not living, but I’ll try to avoid the stupid crap as best I can.
The little boy who used to yell “I take this potch and I throw it away” is still with me. He is as enraged by the arm as the almost middle aged man.
He sees magic and possibility. He is responsible for reminding the man that some limitations exist only because we let them.
The man looks at the little boy and reminds him there are some limitations that have to be viewed differently. They shake hands and promise to work together
Inside the house the boy whispers to the man, ‘let’s try lifting that and see what happens’ but the man ignores the charge, ‘not yet. We need to give our body time.’
****
Queen is singing Who Wants To Live Forever and I ponder some of what was shared in Is the Act Of Writing More Important Than Reading?
I am ready to bathed in sunlight bouncing off of the pacific again but for the moment I have to settle for the 20 degrees of the current location.
Something about the moment reminds me of when the nurse ‘took me for a walk’ at Baylor Scott and White and I stared out at Grapevine, arms outstretched while trying to soak up the sun like Kal El.
It isn’t easy to be patient and let my body heal. I want to try doing some pushups and or engage in other tests of my strength.
There is some truth to pain is weakness leaving the body but there is also truth in strength is choosing not to do something you really wish to do.
So we’ll close our eyes and imagine taking flight. Close our eyes and visualize the place we want to be and focus on the steps that will get us there.
It is not easy to hold myself back, but sometimes it is the wisest of choices.
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