Not dead yet.

You’re a fool, you know that.  A fool to think your body would not start to
decay. A fool to imagine your heart would kick on unimpeded forever.  
The blind optimism of your mother.  Even she could not hold out against
It’s less than a year since my mother died
and already my mortality hits me in the face. 
I’m next in line of the generations to die and although in this world of
never ending youth, or at least the pursuit of it, I’m not that old yet, I sometimes
feel it. 
Science could let me have another
baby if I put my mind and money to it, but I’m past the grandiosity or the desperation of such a
move, only I resent my blood pressure rising. 
I’m lucky, the doctor told me at my
last visit, I have symptoms, light-headedness, pressure in my head.  Some people don’t notice until it’s too late
and then, kerplunck, they’re dead. 
The doctor made taking Coversyl for hypertension sound
as commonplace as taking Panadol for a headache. 
Once you’re past a certain
age, once in your fifties, or past sixty, you’re likely to need it.  It’s like with cars. 
They wear out, so do bodies. 
‘If I asked the population of
people over fifty to put up their hands, at least fifty per cent or more would
be on Coversyl, sooner or later,’ the doctor said.
And so my fate is sealed.  Five milligrams of the tiny blue pill and in
the morning my blood pressure on my home machine had dropped to below 120 over
What’s in this stuff.  
The placebo effect must in there somewhere,
too, because as soon as I took that small blue pill I began to feel better.

I’m so persuadable.  Give me a
doctor whose argument sounds reasonably sound and I’m off, following his advice, but I
won’t be decided completely on this course of action, this reading of past events,
until I see my female doctor, the only one I trust, and then hopefully things
will settle down.

Death is round the corner

My head is dizzy and not just
figuratively.  Either I’ve copped a
virus, or else I’m having a stroke.  Or
maybe I have a brain tumour or some other sinister event is taking place within
my body. 
The hypochondriac in me tells me
this dizziness signals disaster.  The optimist
reckons its nothing short of a virus that will pass. 
But I’m surrounded by illness and
it can become contagious. 
A friend rang this morning to ask
my middle name, she’s making out her will and needs such details. It’s a
comfort to imagine she might be planning to remember me in her inheritance, but a grim thought to consider she might die soon.  She’s just turned 85.
And then there are other reminders
that death is around the corner. 
I scan the death notices most days,
looking for signs that people I once knew have died, but we only subscribe to
the Age and most of the names that
appear there are those more conventional Anglo-Saxon types who also subscribe
to the Age

To read the fuller death notices in
Melbourne you have to subscribe to the Sun
where hundreds of notices from different nationalities ring out the
news.  It’s a depressing thought. 
One day my name will be included in
those notices, just as we included my mother’s name last year and my father’s
before her some thirty plus years ago.
My niece on the cusp of forty may be dying from a rare form of cancer and the very idea fills me with  grief. 
Too young, too soon, and yet she has told me, when she goes to the Peter
Mac Callum clinic for treatment, she’s not a rare case.  The waiting room is filled with people and
many of them are under forty. 
To me, under forty is still
young.  Too young to die. 
The longer you live, the older
you’ll get, the statistics tell us, as if that too might be cause for comfort.
These grim thoughts need an antidote.
In the shower this morning as I
reflected on my night’s dreams, two things struck me. One is the degree to which
the babies in my dreams, and I often dream of babies, are a mixture of infant
and adult, as in they can talk fluently, they eat adult food, and they can sometimes
walk even under six months. 
I drag these babies along with me
in my dreams and they tend to fit in and survive.  Make of that what you will. 
Then the other feature – a pleasure
in my dreams beyond those occasional dreams in which I find myself flying over
rooftops, elevated above the ground simply by willing it to happen – I find
money.  And not just small amounts of
There’s a fifty-dollar note I see
tucked behind a rock.  I pick it up and
there’s another and then another. I stash them into my pockets keen to gather
as many as I can. 
But this money belongs to someone
else. I should not take it or else I must grab it fast because soon they’ll
return and lay claim to it.  I’ll be
caught out. 
Adam Philips writes about ‘guilt as
the psychoanalytic word for not getting caught’.  I write of the horrors of getting
caught.  Of being found out and then of
having to suffer the consequences. 

I can’t trick my body.  It knows when something’s wrong, but whether
or not I pay attention is another matter.