At Least They're Committed

Four-oh-five. I roll over and burrow back under the blanket. That’s a bit of a switch. I tend to awaken at 4:36 a.m. Some spiritualists believe the repetition of a wake-up time will — or already does — have significance in one’s life or death. Mostly, I’ve heard it’s between 3-4 a.m., though. I shrug. I don’t know about that. But I do know 4:05 gives me nearly two hours before I absolutely must stumble out of bed and into my office, it’s still dark, the dog is pressed against my side softly snoring and the sheets are soft and warm. And, maybe best of all, I feel no pain.

I don’t go back to sleep, though. I say my prayers and mentally kick myself (for I am in no condition for literal kicking) for not taking the time to re-memorize the Prayer of St. Jude. And I pledge again to do so. I always stumble through these lines: “Sacred Heart of Jesus have mercy on us. St. Jude worker of miracles, pray for us.” But not anymore, I pledge.

In the meantime, I lay awake mentally exploring riveting topics, such as how frustrating it is when an online form asks for your email and then chides you with flashing, red “invalid address” the entire time you’re inserting it as if you should type at the speed of light (or in this case ‘the cloud?’).

Or the chuckle I got when the National Guard reached out to me as a possible candidate — now what could they possibly want me for? And yet how delightful to be reminded that I’ve gotten a clean slate and can find other avenues to explore and adventures to collect.

Or how did I get to age 62 without knowing what fennel and tarragon are used for?

Or wonder how many more days I have to be fastened to this tens unit — four strategically placed pads firmly attached to my upper thigh consistently sending shock waves through my skin, fat and muscle — in an attempt to heal my trochanteric bursitis. Ah, yes, let’s give a big hand to my latest physical setback (I’d take a bow, but that would be excruciating) this time comprising iliotibial band syndrome. How did I do that? God knows. I just woke up one morning and there it was — pain!

Rotting from the inside out, that’s me. But the good news is that the X-ray showed my right hip is spot on and should last me until I’m 82, by which time I hope to be hangin’ or close to hangin’ with the ancestors and watching over my family from the Great Beyond. (Run-on!)

And maybe I can spend a little time with Gabriel (seen here as a chupacabra because there’s no such thing as the goat sucker but I think the legend sounds cool and Gabriel can appear as anything he wants). Maybe he wouldn’t mind answering my questions about the meaning of life and existence on Earth. What was biblically accurate and what was distorted by controlling and misguided men (I’m being generous there)? And what in heaven’s name did I do to injure my IT band in 2023? We can play cards and discuss the state of the world, and I can finally ask him if, in fact, dogs’ intelligence and empathy have significantly evolved during my lifetime.

Faaaaawk my leg hurts! “It’s only pain,” I say again and again. And it will eventually go away, or I’ll get used to it, or I’ll die. One way or another, it’s only temporary. But, of course, there’s a good chance there’ll be something else to groan, ache and/or agonize about after that. *Sigh* “Saint Jude helper and keeper of the hopeless, pray for us.”