I don’t know if I’m handling this well, or if I am king of denial. Do I listen to all of those people whose Uncle Irv, ad Pd for 40 years, but died in the Himalayas at age 90, or exposure, because he was having sex with the 22 year old, female Sherpa? Or do I listen to those who ask me if I can still walk?
There has definitely been a decline in my motor skills in the past year. Not precipitous, but noticeable. When the medications are not fully working, my walking is slow and strained. I now can fool none of the people all of the time. I’ve been having trouble with keys and forks again. (This was one of the first signs. The medications seemed to have conquered this.)
I’m constantly tired. This may be a product of lack of sleep, which is a product of not wanting to go to sleep, so as to avoid the graphic dreams. Last night’s dream, I landed in OZ. I met a Mortgage Broker born without ethics. I offered to take him to see the Wizard. He declined and tried to sell me a subprime mortgage.
I fight the never ending battle between logic and fun. Logic tells fun not to do certain things. Fun tells logic to go f*** himself. So who do I listen to? More often than not fun. That brings to mind the eternal question. Is quality of life or quantity of life more important?
I’d love to live another 40 years. However if 30 of them have me in a nursing home, lusting after that sexy octogenarian, with the adorable dribble cascading down her chin, then what’s the point?
So getting back to the first statement, I know what may happen to me. I’ll discuss my health with anybody, as long as they don’t think that they are Nostradamus. I’m going to keep om going until I can go no further, and then I’ll go some more.