I have a constant companion who never leaves. Even
when I’m otherwise alone -- in the shower or tucked away in bed -- my companion
is hanging around.
We don’t speak. Don’t need to. We intuitively know
everything about each other. Know where to find the dark corners of the mind
and the cut-to-the-quick places that never heal.
We have a long history, my companion and I. It was
the summer of 1973, when Nixon was still in the White House and Paul Lynde was the
center of Hollywood Squares. It was
also when juvenile rheumatoid arthritis claimed me and its signature feature –
debilitating joint pain -- showed up at my front door. I thought it was merely a
slovenly, uninvited house guest, a ne’er-do-well that would pack up in a few
days, maybe a few weeks, then depart. Instead, it moved in and never left.
Over the years, I – along with a cadre of medical
professionals – have tried to evict it. Tried to send the pain packing by
strong-arming it with a pharmaceutical goon squad. At times, we pushed it
toward the doorway where my loathsome companion was barely clinging to the jamb
by its dirty fingernails. But when I turned ‘round, it was reclining
comfortably in a Naugahyde La-Z-Boy in the den, plowing through a 12-pack of
Schlitz, belching loudly and tossing the cans on the floor.
My companion used to wander the house howling at
the top of its lungs. Used to bind me like concertina wire in a cruel embrace.
Each day was dreadful but the unpredictable flares were far worse. When my
companion tore up the furniture and ripped open walls on intense benders -- I remained
motionless. To even sit upright would push me to the edge of a blackout. I
remember untold hours spent attempting mental distractions. Counting the bumps
on the ceiling. Spotting all the places the wallpaper pattern repeated itself.
By junior
high, my body grew increasingly unpredictable. As my strength dwindled, my companion’s
blossomed. On good days, the microscopic drug goons patrolled my insides with brass
knuckles and lead pipes, looking for my companion. But his outbursts could only
be quelled a bit, from roaring jumbo jet to battering jack hammer. A knee might
flare and make walking even a few steps a nightmare. A joint in my finger or
the bones in my hand would partially dislocate and I would have to jam them
back into place. My jaw would hurt so bad I could barely chew.
Because
the pills I took were about as effective as swallowing M&Ms, my arthritis
remained unchecked. My companion moved from the guest room to a basement efficiency
apartment. It put up black light Op-art posters and beaded curtains. Ate Slim
Jims and Beef-a-roni out of the can. Watched Chevy Chase movies on Betamax
while lying on a Murphy bed, clearly in it for the long haul.
Years
passed and my bones disintegrated. Joint fusions and replacements -- brutal
human carpentry –were my only option for anything resembling a life.
I eventually
worked out an arrangement with my companion. It could have a 99-year lease on
the basement, but the stairs in between were our DMZ. It could make a tolerable
racket, provided I couldn’t hear anything over the soothing sounds of my mental
white noise machine.
My
companion is still alive and kicking. But most days, I can tune it out. I’ve
compartmentalized my home, my heart and my mind. We live our separate – yet
very interconnected – lives.
Last
Christmas, my companion demanded Netflix download service, a pair of Nike Zoom LeBron Soldiers and a craft beer brewing kit. My
reply?
“Stick
it where the sun don’t shine.”
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