“Pain – Part Two”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-17)

Pain, my partner.

The new presence of this woe as a life-companion became apparent when warmer weather finally came to Geauga County, Ohio. Snow as a component of the weather forecast was finally gone. Daffodils were blooming in the front yard. Avian songs could be heard lingering in the air. The bonfire season had nearly begun.

I plucked the red Murray mower from its winter rest next to my motorcycle and began the seasonal starting ritual. Prime the carburetor, pull-to-start. Prime again, pull again. Dry, matted grass flew into the air. I waited for the engine to settle into a regular idle. And then, the spring habit was ready to commence!

My yard is barely wider than the driveway. Literally a green border with squares of lawn, front and back. Mowing takes about half an hour, with extra care given to cropping the two abandoned flower beds and a large circle under the blooming tree behind my mobile home. It should have been easy for a man aged 55 years to accomplish such a humble task.

But after finishing my chore, which required two breaks in between, I could barely walk. My knees, left hip, and lower back were spent. I sat in a living room chair while pondering the pain that coursed through my body. How was it possible that this simple job left me so bent and beaten?

It took a full day to recover.

I felt humbled by the weakness manifested in my limbs. It literally made no sense that a fellow of this age, middle years of life in effect, could be brought to the point of surrender by a routine task like cutting the grass. Yet here I was, sipping water and slumped in my chair.

My sister, who had been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, offered emotional support. I felt grateful. Yet still, the questions lingered. Why had I arrived so early to the phase of life where commonplace tasks sapped my endurance? Why did I struggle to manage living alone with so many years waiting to be known? Why was I so old before my time?

A week later, I tried to tackle this job again. I reckoned it was simply a happening of chance. But the resulting agony muted my hope.

Fatigue was now my master.

A neighbor offered support with her own story of limited abilities. “I can’t weed my flower garden like the old days!” she said. “Or go running around with friends. But, you get used to making changes in life! My great-grandchildren help me so much. I am grateful for their kindness!” Her admonition provided welcome relief. Yet I realized that she was nearly 80 years old. How had I reached a similar point of inability so young?

My spirit felt weary. I was not ready for this change of life.

After a knee injury from trying to boost myself off the couch, after watching sports, I surrendered that furnishing to my Black Lab. It became part of his domain. I needed the dual arms of a formal chair to assume a vertical posture. My cane (patterned after one used by television character ‘Dr. House’) became a constant companion. I grew accustomed to receiving looks of concern from bystanders and having doors held open.

My orthopedist said “You multiply your body weight by seven times, when going up a flight of steps.” I reckoned he had to be correct. Lifting myself up to the front porch at home required a bullish amount of effort. More than I would have expected under any circumstances. But I managed to maintain my mobility.

Then, I arrived at the point of ‘early retirement’ from my job. At first, this detour from everyday responsibilities was welcome. But soon, I developed a sort of ‘arthritis’ from being inactive. Sleep became difficult. I had no routine. The ache of worn-out joints was persistent. Hour by hour, the throb of injury made itself known. In a sense, I was paying the piper for years of self-neglect.

Both parents, in their 80’s, walked with the aid of canes. I had literally followed in their footsteps. Though a bit too close for comfort.

Changes in the weather reminded me of my right ankle break, in 2014. I had declined proper treatment to maintain my work duties as a business manager. But now, this extra ping of pain added to the burden. The onset of rainy weather caused my bones to sing out the memory of their impact on slippery concrete. I hobbled along like homeless senior. Still mystified by the scope of my own impairment.

A familiar adage says: “No pain, no gain.” It is often displayed on T-shirts and exercise wear favored by those too young to fully comprehend.

From my own perspective, I could easily attest to the truth of that statement, having reached the point in life where literally nothing was achieved without some sort of hurt. Yet owing to discipline of soul and mind, I put aside the worry over physical woe. Pain evaporated in the joy of doing. I was glad to be active and free. Not with the abandon of youth, but with a sterner sort of determination born of necessity. And age.

It was then that I came to comprehend the strength of my forebears.

My joints were often trembling as I met the challenge of common living. I no longer had the stamina of my youth. Sometimes, simply getting through a 24-hour day meant employing creative strategies for success. But I did succeed. And I was able to thrive.

Pain, my partner, did not snuff out the daylight.

It only served to bring the beloved essence of life into sharper focus. To highlight the joy of survival. To illuminate the satisfaction in meeting challenges of existence.

And winning.

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Published weekly in the Geauga Independent