This is a strange disease. There is absolutely no pain, yet it's a struggle to do the everyday activities, that once came so naturally.
First of all, my inner thermometer is out of whack. On Humid days, like today, I'm likely to go through the "flop sweats." The water will pour out of me like a faucet that can't be shut. Now there are three of you lovely ladies, who in our younger days dated me. Now aren't you upset that you don't get to live with this?
Sometimes it's a struggle to walk the streets of Forest Hills. They got rid of the Forest, but left the Hills. I sometimes rest in MacDonald Park. I wonder if, to paraphrase Woody Allen, I'm going to become one of those old men who sit in the park and scream about communism?
I still look at it as an inconvenience. I have to. I've been through the period of depression, and it's a waste of time. Once it's over you've accomplished nothing and you're back where you began.
I want to be able to do just what I've always done. I want to swing a bat, catch a ball, take a jump shot (even if it is with a 1 inch vertical leap), take my walks in Central Park. Last Fall and Spring the sweats went away. I hope that they do again this fall.
Somebody commented today about my joking about the PD. I have to. I'm happiest when I laugh or make somebody else laugh. I'm not blind to what may happen, but so far it's progressed very slowly. So I'm going to go on, and you will be my audience (or victims) for my jokes, my puns an occasional limerick, and the rants of a curmudgeon.