Scrambled Age and Ability

You’re too old. Those words sting, at first. But as their meaning sinks in, they take away strength in the legs and empty the lungs of air. Suddenly, breathing is not only impossible, it is undesirable. The only desire remaining is the longing to throw oneself into a bottomless black abyss where consciousness ceases to exist. Too old? Too old for what? Too old to serve in the military, become a police officer, pilot a commercial aircraft, join government clandestine services, and a thousand other things. But those are just jobs—they don’t equate to a person’s value, do they? Do they?


The timing was right. Right before I called yesterday for an appointment with the dermatology nurse, someone had just called to cancel an appointment this morning, so I am scheduled for 9:15 today. And when I called the optometrist’s office for an appointment, I was able to get on the schedule for this upcoming Friday morning. I recently had been forced to cancel earlier appointments with both of them, thanks to appointments with my oncologist. When her office unexpectedly asks me to come in, that takes precedence. The dermatology and optometry appointments both are moderately pressing in importance, but oncology appointments eclipse them. Speaking of calls from the oncologist’s office, I got one yesterday: they want me there tomorrow, even though my next appointment had been set for next week. And so I will go for an interim adjustment infusion. Even if I were not too old, my commitments to healthcare appointments would not leave me time to serve in age-restricted activities. I feel okay, except for the fact that I have limited control over my schedule—when the appointment bell rings, I behave like Pavlov’s dogs. As annoying as that can be, though, I realize how much better it is than having none of those appointments.


Mi novia is away for awhile, so I have considerable time to myself at the moment. I should be using that time productively, but my own thoughts distract me. Unless I can devote an entire day to productive activities, I tend to get very little done. So, for example, when I have errands to run, I fritter away much of the time I might otherwise have devoted to being productive at home. I could still get things done, of course, but my personality insists that I need a full day of uninterrupted time to devote to productivity…even if the time I need to accomplish my tasks is only a few hours. Procrastination? It’s not quite that; it’s more a strange psychosis that resembles sloth, but it’s not that, either. Therapy might h help…if only I could find a suitable therapist with whom I could feel absolutely comfortable. Of course, I realize there are few people on Earth with whom I feel absolutely comfortable, so I have quite the obstacle to overcome. I am a nearly-full-time recluse; partly by choice, partly by circumstance. I have limited tolerance for being around people, even for those I like and whose company I enjoy—even my own company. That probably makes me seem more than a little aloof. Have I mentioned that before in my random musings?


Time to scramble to get ready to go out!

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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