On too many mornings, I wake up with no feeling below my knees on both legs, a vascular problem that continues after injuries over the past decade. With a cane and hallway to lean on, I make it to my den to let a pair of leg sleeves massage the legs to restore enough feeling to walk, gingerly, with support.
A trio of orthopedic surgeons say I need multiple surgeries to repair the damaged legs along with two bad shoulder joints. They want to start by replacing my left shoulder, then repair damage from a bone spur on he right one, then replace both knees and possibly a right ankle.
As a left-hander, having my left shoulder out of action while recovering from a complete joint replacement means being unable to drive or even do any menial tasks for at least six weeks. Steroid shots in my knees have helped some and we hope doing shots in both shoulders delay the need for surgery for a while.
If I were a horse, I would have been put down months ago. The prospect of turning 79 in six months is a goal I hope to reach.
Wife Amy and I suffer from rapidly-advancing arthritis. I have trouble holding on to things or type, a necessary function for a writer. Back in the early days of my chosen career as a newspaperman and photo journalist, I took Secretarial Typing courses in school for two years and had a typing speed of more than 100 words a minute. Now I’m lucky to create 25 words in 60 seconds and typos too often creep into the product.
A brain injury 12 years ago in a severe motorcycle has caused short-term memory problems and other cognitive functions that are now accelerated by age. Fortunately, I still have many long-term memories that are intact, with some exceptions, and those terms are mostly good ones of a full and adventuresome life with a loving wife and good friends.
Sadly, too many longtime friends are gone now. When we moved to Floyd County in 2004, a return for me after 49 years on the road, I looked forward to hooking up with some of those friends. My best friend in high school, however, died too young not long after we arrived and too any other classmates have followed. Same for friends made after coming here.
I’ve lost a sister younger than me, a first cousin in Florida (also younger), a longtime girlfriend and lover from the days before Amy, a close collegue and friend from our days together in a newspaper in the St. Louis metro area and others.
For many years, I was the youngest person among friends and peers, a 17-year-old reporter for The Roanoke Times. Now, I am older than many who have passed and am the second-oldest among a group that occasionally gathers for breakfast at Blue Ridge Diner in Floyd.
Time, indeed, has flown.