On Friday, my brother Dick texted, “First day of spring!” with a laughing monkey emoji. He’s big on emojis, the sillier the better.
I replied, “First day of my last spring.”
Dick didn’t notice the pessimism in that line, and started prattling on about baseball, but “my last spring” seems like a likely assessment of the situation.
It’s not depression, I’ll never be suicidal, and I’m hoping to hang around long enough to celebrate Donald Trump’s death, but life’s offered ten thousand disappointments. Death will probably let me down, too.
I am old, and feel every year of it. Always something aches, almost always for no reason. Some days more of me aches than doesn’t.
Haven’t had a bowel movement in twenty years that wasn’t lubed along by laxatives.
Haven’t slept straight through the night since I was ten years old.
Haven’t had a fully firm erection since the 2010s.
Not often, but sometimes there’s blood in my stool and semen.
My toenails are so thick it takes a hacksaw to trim ’em, but I’m so fat that bending that far is a challenge, so the nails aren’t cut until they draw blood from neighbor toes.
Had a rash a while back, and still do. Ordinarily, rashes fade by rubbing in triple antibiotic ointment or squirting plenty of Lotrimin, but this rash has been itchy and scratchy for a month now, getting neither better nor worse.
Thirty years ago, I had a tooth yanked, and the wound became infected. Ever since, I’ve had otherwise unexplained fevers once or twice a month, and taken three aspirin three times daily until the fever subsides. Lately, the fevers are coming more and more often.
Speaking of teeth, mine are awful, and the recurring toothaches come more often than even a few months ago.
My right leg has plumped up like a Ball Park frank. A doc ten years ago told me to wear compression socks, so I do, and when the leg gets superplump, I add a second, now a third compression sock.
And my brain is receding. Words and names are more and more elusive. Writing is… what’s the word? Difficult. A few days ago I was headed south, but waited at the northbound bus stop, even got onto a northbound bus before realizing my mistake.
Bad dreams come so frequently, I’ve started keeping a list. In the past week I’ve dreamed nuclear war, a visit from my father’s rotting corpse, and an earthquake where the walls were shaking but the boss told everyone to stay on the job. A co-worker ran for a first-floor window and dived out, and I followed her, and after we’d landed we turned around and watched the building collapse to dust. Everyone, dead.
I dreamed I was riding a bus that tipped over rounding a corner too fast. The doors wouldn’t open, and the windows, which are supposed to pop out in an emergency, were welded shut, and then the bus started filling with toxic fumes.
Not sure whether it was a school massacre or a workplace massacre, but I dreamed that someone with a gun was going around in a crowded, busy place, killing people at random. Kash Patel was in charge of the negotiating team that was trying to get him to surrender, but acquiesced to the killer’s demand for a supply of more guns and ammo.
Obviously, my mental health is unhealthy. Jeez, look at this room — I’ve stopped making even the slightest effort at tidiness, haven’t taken out trash in a couple of months, and the debris is taller than I am (not an exaggeration). I simply don’t give a shit.
And all that’s why it wouldn’t be a surprise if 2026 is my last go-round. Being old is the only diagnosis more fatal than being born.
3/24/2026
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