You and I are akin to passenger tires in some ways. If we experience some sort of damage, we can be patched in much the same way tires are repaired. Over time, though, the wear and tear of daily experience takes a toll too great for simple repairs to correct. For tires, full-scale refurbishment sometimes provides a way to avoid sending them to the trash bin. When you and I reach the point at which repairs are too complex, too expensive, or simply impossible, the options are limited and stark.
There was a time, when tire treads had worn uncomfortably thin, that the tire was not simply discarded. Rather than pile old tires in massive heaps that occasionally caught fire and poured black smoke into the air, enterprising folks gave the tires new life by retreading them. Retreading tires of commercial trucks is still fairly common, but not for passenger cars; the increased longevity of modern passenger tires and the fact that their materials are thinner than in years past is said to explain the decline in retreading car tires. Today, when passenger car tires reach the end of their safe and useful lives, typically they are replaced with new tires, complete with a warrantee of tread life.
That is where you and I differ in some ways from tires. When we reach the end of our useful lives, replacement parts cannot make us new again. Like tires that have reached that point, replacements are brought in. Young people are stronger, quicker, and usually cheaper than the dinosaurs they replace. That notwithstanding, efforts continue in the search for ways to temporarily delay the inevitable acknowledgement that you and I have reached the point at which we no longer have utility. Sentimentality, not efficiency, guides the way you and I are treated after we reach that unfortunate pre-departure destination.
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When virtually every hour of every day is spent either sleeping, wanting to sleep, undergoing one kind of medical treatment or another, or wondering whether the treatments will ever end, one begins to question the value of the process. Even though the process does not involve ceaseless pain, immobility, or other significantly unpleasant physical experiences, the relentlessness of restrictions and the fatigue-based prevention of “getting on with life” can be maddening. I haven’t partaken of mood-altering gummies in quite some time; perhaps that would break this cycle of impatience and boredom and simmering anger directed at the universe.
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We watched a few episodes of a Canadian police procedural drama (19-2) last night. I am waiting to be drawn in to it. It is not bad; just not especially riveting thus far. Maybe the problem is that I am distracted by a very runny nose, red and itchy eyes that feel like they have a coating of rough sand over them, and various other physical annoyances. Morphine might take care of the physical annoyances, but it probably would cause me to sleep through all four seasons of the show. I do not have access to morphine, so my conjecture about its effects is useless. I cannot think of any series or any film that I think would provide me with an absorbing experience; none of my old favorites seem particularly interesting at the moment. During last night’s TV watching session, I ate half a pint of ice cream; it was more an automatic response to its presence than a genuine desire for the taste of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. Food—any kind of food—holds little interest to me. I realize I have to eat, but it is hard to do. I’ve been better at it lately than in the last week or so, but the thought of food does not do anything for me. I forced down a mocha-flavored Ensure this morning, but I do not want anything else. Maybe I should try watching morning television; I haven’t done that in years and years. But the very idea of watching either news or cheery morning chit-chat is enough to make me gag.
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Clearly, my mood this morning is not suitable for any day of the week, especially Wednesday. I should go back to bed and sleep for the rest of the day. But I won’t.
