Swollen and Slow

My hands struggle with the lid on the pill jar. Arthritis pills stored in a childproof jar. Not just childproof. Adult proof if your hands now rebel against the easiest of tasks. Rebel against what might bring some relief. Rebel against temporary relief.

Rebel against numbing the pain.

My hands know they have seen more years than they will see again. They know they are past the effortless opening of jars. The ease of plucking strings to fill the air with the wondrous strains of joyful music has long passed from my grasp. From my hands.

But I still try.

Without the simple joy of music to soothe the cacophony in my brain, there is no use in continuing. No use in proceeding. Life without music is death while still breathing. You go through the motions, but the passion is gone.

Life without passion isn't worth living.

With great care, I open the top drawer of my dresser. I have no choice but to take care, as my hands will do it in no other way. My precious rosewood box sits in this drawer, in a position of honour. A position of power. I run my hands over it, still feeling the beauty of the carvings - even through the numbness seeping through my fingertips.

The numbness robs me of many sensations, but I know this box by heart.

With great care, I take my prized box out of the dresser drawer and place it in the basket at the front of my walker. I shuffle over from my dresser to the only table I have in this cramped apartment. Pushing the nurse's bell from the center of the table where they always leave it, I lovingly lay my box down. With slow and deliberate movements - the only kind I can make with two titanium knees and one hip - I ease myself into the armchair beside the table.

The place where I eat all the institution's meals, now. Alone. Empty.

Staring at my beautiful rosewood box in the center of the table, I remember the beauty of times past. Not the gilded beauty of a mind seeing only the good, but the beauty of both the good and the bad.

The memories of a life well-lived, and of the few regrets still burning my soul.

I remember her like she was lying at my side only yesterday. I also remember holding her hands, as I sat by her hospice bed watching as she faded away, a little more with every tick of the clock. The same with friends and family, but not so close. Not so intimate. Not so devastating.

I remember it as though it were yesterday, but it was far too long ago.

I pull myself to a stand and move to my walker. My prized box is still in the center of the table. The phonograph sits empty, but soon it will spin the songs of our youth. The songs we sang together as we lived and laughed and loved. I take one of my few remaining vinyl records and put it on the turntable. The platter spins, mesmerizing me as I fumble with the arm, trying to gently place the diamond stylus in the first groove. 

The room comes alive with the sounds of the big bands we loved.

My brain lightly dances along with the swirling saxophones, but my feet drag themselves back to my chair by the table. I lower myself back into my chair and stare at my precious box. With some trepidation, I open the box, sliding the hook out from the eyelet, revealing its contents for all to gaze upon.

But like it has been for so many years, only my eyes behold these treasures.

Old letters, ancient coins, broken costume jewelry - all of my treasures for public display. All but one. The one hidden in the false bottom of my box, far away from prying institutional eyes. Well-meaning, but dull. Obedient to the letter of the law, and not its spirit. 

I overturn my box, scattering its contents on the table and onto the floor.

Taking my old letter opener, I pry open the bottom of the box. The administration lets me keep it since it hasn't had an edge on it in fifty years and I am far too weak to damage anybody with its dull tip. With a final grunt, I dislodge the false bottom and behold my prize. The silver plating still gleams as I pull my trusty Walther PPK from its hiding place.

A retirement gift from a country who would rather forget me than honour me.

My hands, feeble as they are now, still know how to check my weapon, and how to disassemble and reassemble it. They definitely know how to load it. I lay my weapon in front of me. Until now, it has always only been a tool. But now it's still not a weapon. Perhaps now it is simply freedom.

It is time to end my struggle against the tyranny of an aged body.

Paul Mansfield is a lover, a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all. You can follow his wacky and zany misadventures on Twitter @pmansfield