Body talk

Zelda: [I’m in my office, and I hear Zach in our bedroom across the hall. He’s struggling with something. Turns out, he's sitting on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed trying to pull on compression socks. It ain't workin'.]

Zach: Come on, you can do it, get in there. [Grunts] Are you kidding me? What are you doing? [More grunting] Listen, fuckface, I’m not gonna tell you again. Get it together. 

Zelda: [I’m relieved his frustration isn't aimed at me. This time.] Talking to yourself?

Zach: Talking to my body.

Zelda: Why?

Zach: It talks to me all the time.

Zelda: Sounds like you’re arguing with protesters.

Zach: My whole body's on strike today. It’s telling me, “Stop it! Stop moving! Stand still!”

Zelda: Are you listening?

Zach: Nope.

Zelda: My hero!

Zach: Yesterday, my knee was feeling pretty good, so I did some squats.

Zelda: Uh oh...

Zach: I know. Fucked that up. I learn how far to push it by how I feel the next day, that’s for sure.

Zelda: [Zach is the same person I linked arms with 30+ years ago, but he’s in a different body. Don't get me wrong, my body has changed too. I have no illusions about my youthful appearance. But Zach's body has changed dramatically. At the hospital the other day, a nurse was going through his file. She pointed to his profile picture, and asked me if that was really him. Yep. He’s changed a bit in the last 8 years:

• He used to have a full face and an easy smile. He still has a gorgeous smile IMHO. But after losing more than 90 lbs., his face is narrow and his cheeks are hollow. Reminds me of his grandpa.
• He used to have XXL shoulders and guns for arms. Now his biceps are thinner than mine.
• His legs are skinny too, except at the cankles. 
• His hair used to be as thick as protesters at a “No Kings” rally. Now it’s as sparse as a Trump inauguration. 
• His eyelashes and eyebrows are still AWOL from chemo. Want to make someone look alien? Take away their eyelashes and eyebrows. 
• A few weeks ago, his jaw went numb on the left side. Then the right side did the same. CT scans show metastases in his jawbone, so he might need radiation therapy. Seems like it's been one issue after another. Today it's his neck, tomorrow it's his hip or his back or knee. It's like systems flickering off and on, with cancer growing and weakening his bones.

But one thing hasn't changed: Zack's not fragile. He’s no invalid.]

Zelda: Time for feet? 

Zach: Oh, yeah. 

[We’ve been using a small percussion massager on the bottom of Zach’s feet a couple times a day to ease his chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy. He says it’s the only time his feet don’t burn or sting.] 

Zach: [Flops on the couch, flips off his Sketchers, and pops open the footrest]. Ready for ya!

Zelda: [Starts on his right foot–the one missing its second toe.] That ok?

Zach: Ahhhhh…It’s more than ok. I wish you could feel it just for a minute. It’s like a vacation. [Closes his eyes]

Zach: [A few moments later, sleepily]: “Oh, my god. That is bliss. Thank you! I might even make you fish tacos later if I wake up. 

Zelda: Deal!

[Later that night, after the fish tacos, Zach comes into the living room with a beer in one hand and a glass with one slim finger of whiskey in the other.]

Zach: [Raises the beer] This one’s for back pain and knee pain. [Raises the whiskey] And this one’s for pain pain.

Zelda: Pain pain?

Zach: Everything else pain. Always wondered what it would be like to get old, and now I know: Sitting around, sipping drams of whiskey, talking about body parts and pain. What do you do when you’re alive and you’re stuck in a body that doesn’t work?

Zelda: You deal.

Zach: Tru dat. It’s like I'm on a river: Never know what’s around the bend–or how I’ll feel from one day to the next. But I keep my sense of humor. And I have a good one. This is fun. I’m having a large time.