The Sage (and Saga) of High Blood Pressure

                                                                                      Photo by Levi Stute on Unsplash



​God, I offer myself to thee to build with me and do with me as thou will. Relieve me of the bondage self so that I may do thy will.


As mentioned, I have the Third Step Prayer on repeat in my mind, and yet ... I self-sabotage. Why can't I just relax? I know enough to know that acceptance is the solution to all our problems.

For example, if I could just accept that I'm 78 and need caretakers, most of whom are kind when they aren't betraying me. I won't name names. Okay I will: it was Jaime (not his real name; he knows who he is). He betrayed me but he betrayed himself first. 

Cliff, my weekly massage therapist who thankfully makes house calls, recently proclaimed that my fascia, especially in my feet and calves, is very tight. This tracks because my feet are often numb. Numb fun in old age does not require drugs. The body takes care of it!

It may be my body's way of signaling that I need space. I’m maxed out and all set with Lucky, my superhero dog, and my right-hand man, Whender. I love them both. 

At 78, I'm proud of the fact that while I walk like an oldster, I don't yet need a cane. I despise canes. Too on-the-nose symbolic of a crutch. As in, I can't make it through this life, from room to room or place to place, and I need a damn crutch to lean my heavy heart on. No thank you. 

I do have to concede that my memory is fading (Charlene who?), which is in part why I'm trying to get it all on the page. A life memorialized. 

Old-age indignities are legion. The gift that keeps on giving. Have I mentioned that my neck is stiff? What does that mean, what does that represent? It hurts when I bend it to write. I'm at odds with myself most of the time, especially while trying to be productive. What would Freud say about that?  

He would have a field day with my anxiety. I know when my blood pressure spikes because my neck locks up. I become a corpse with an unlikely beating heart. Motionless, depressed and shot through with pain.

From age 50 to 65, I dodged aches and pains with antipsychotic medication that I took every morning. I genuflected to the pharmaceutical companies. It was a time-limited relationship—one that would succumb to reality. 

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