Mid-Life, Not so Much

Time served on the earth doesn’t mean you grow in mind

- Creed, Signs, Weathered

I want to dedicate today to the four loves of my life:

  • to the one whose love brought me life and held onto it

  • to the one whose love brought me a second life

  • to the one who, when I looked in her eyes, taught me love makes the man

  • finally, to my puppy love, whose love is pure.

Thirty-five years ago, a spirit and a body came together, the creation of a new soul. But the body wasn’t quite ready for the spirit. In the order of the universe, though, this soul had to spring forth at that time.

The body, with its first gasp of air, with its first cry, began to seek and yearn only for what every other body desires — survival. But, instead of just breathing in and out and taking in the gifts the world has given, the soul needed more. From that very second, the soul knew it had to fight. It had to survive. And so, it began.

Where was this fight coming from? What was inside this child that was the spark to light this flame? Oh, how this boy wished he could just tell the world what he needed. But, alas, this new body could not. And so the fight began and it needed to get out.

Yet, in reality, the fight was because something inside this body could get out. The boy’s bladder was blocked. He could not get the toxins and waste out of his body. And he could not tell anyone.

It continued. The pain increased. The need for survival grew greater. And the fight within him grew as this did. The world around him seemed only interested on the surface, on what was on his outside. But the truth, the need, the real definition of that pure infant was written. And so, like a wild animal fighting for its very life (indeed, wasn’t that what was happening here?), his fight intensified.

When what was accumulating inside of him was finally understood and was noticed, it was released. He was given relief. At least for now, the body could rest, it could heal.

But not the spirit. Unlike the body that was granted release, the boy did not let go of all that had gathered in the soul. In fact, the survival instinct made him fight and hold on even tighter. What could he not let go of? What did his entire being cling tightly to, as the only thing it had known?

It was fear. Fear that more would not notice what was inside. Fear that he might not live. And the fear fueled that fight. Even as he grew older and the memories of that time faded and consciousness grew, deep within the fight and fear were held close.

The battles that occur in the deep, silent chambers of the soul aren’t seen on the surface. At least, not initially. But, every now and again, the fear broke through and manifested at the surface. Pain. Confusion. Desperation. Sadness.

A little over thirty years passed from the birth of that new soul. Little did he know that his body and spirit had continued to fight. What had lingered in his body in his first few weeks of his life had taken its toll. And, the fight that his spirit held on to so tightly began to erupt. His body began to fail. And the spirit, still clinging so tightly to all it had known deep inside, fought for its life. But in so doing, it lost almost all that the soul had grown to hold dear.

And so, here I stand, thirty-five years from that day. My body and soul, still with fight within. But it is taking its toll.

I’m rusted and weathered, barely holdin’ together
I’m covered w/ skin that peels & it just won’t heal
…No, it just won’t heal, no, no, no

The sun shines and I can’t avoid the light
I think I’m holdin’ on to life too tight…
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust
Sometimes I feel like giving up… yeah, I said,
Sometimes I feel like giving up… ’cause I’m,

…It just won’t heal, no

‘Cause one day it ends – One day we die
Believe what you will – That is your right
But I choose to win – I choose to fight…
To fight… ‘Cause I’m,

…Covered with skin that peels & it just won’t heal

– Creed, Weathered

I don’t know so much what “winning” means any more. Where does my story continue? The infections never leave my body. The very things that are keeping me alive — the immunosupression and the catheterization — are also the things that are keeping what is killing me inside my body. The infections will not leave.

No matter what I try, my spirit and soul will not let go of the fighting, the pain, and the hurt of a lifetime. The fight is all my soul knows. But my head knows that it is no longer what I need, holding onto it will not bring me joy and happiness.

Here I am, thirty-five years later. Who would have ever thought this is where I’d be today?

And the soul is so exposed.

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