People often ask what it’s like living with the unknown. Truth told, this morning started exactly where last night left off.
Brain fog.
It’s not romantic. You know, that Hollywood mysterious scene in movies where the protagonist stares pensively out a rain-soaked window and see the person forever adored. No. This is the kind where you open your eyes and your first genuine, unfiltered thought is, “Why the fuck did I wake up?” Then, looking at the ceiling, “What the hell God?”
“Eventually, everything in the body becomes unreliable,” my neuro stated. It’s a hidden truth of nature. In our teen’s we laugh at it. In our twenties, any notion of time is philosophized over during bartender’s last call. In our thirties, the term slowing down was bantered watching old geezers struggle playing softball at company games. In our forties, we begin to struggle when a few kick the bucket, usually due to cancer or maybe a car wreck. It hits home in our sixties when were told we’re the one dying.
“Your body is becoming unreliable,” I repeated walking to my car. “I cannot change that,” I repeated to myself. Only then do you see the elders of yesteryear stare you in the face and hear the laughter. I swear I heard them. I swear I did. “Sucks to be you,” they snerted (a word my ex invented) at me as I drove drove home. Pulling into my underground parking space, I turn the car off. Pausing for a moment as my hands rested on the steering wheel, I reflected. I have no problem distinguishing the past from the present as Rod Serling narrates, ‘There’s signpost up ahead. Your next stop, the Twilight Zone!’ in my mind.
