The Process
It happened yesterday. I was driving along and felt surprisingly normal. It was if no one had stuck metal catheters into my arteries through my groin and inserted stents into several other wonky arteries. It was just me and my body in the car zipping along, living life, thinking about nothing in particular. It didn’t last long, there was a twinge where none was expected, and I was reminded of what I’d just done. But it was one of those moments, presaging many more to come, I’m sure.
It's that old healing process. I talked about it the other day. Wounds of the body. Wounds of the heart. Pain. The reminder. Then the skin heals. The muscles heal. The heart heals. The body and the mind adjust to the new normal. Maybe there’s a limp. A hitch in the get along. Maybe not. Maybe love is hard to find. Maybe it’s hard to accept. Maybe it never comes. Maybe nothing compares. Are my new arteries as good as the old? Yes. Probably better. Regardless, it’s a process. It’s what I have. I’ll live with them. In more ways than one.
Meanwhile, I feel like getting on with it. I worked in the yard yesterday. Pulled a few weeds. Had dinner with a friend. Drove around the countryside. Made plans. An ordinary day. And now, this morning, the cows are bellowing in the pasture, the swallows are getting ready to bear young, the cats are fed, and I’m enjoying the cool morning air. It feels like a good day. And ten years feels a long way off.