Shrinking and growing

I’m suffering from a communication breakdown. I can still think for myself, still speak fairly coherently and write things down when I need to.

But there’s a disconnection, a complete failure between my head and the rest of my body.

Communication is hard work. Even doing the simple things gets me into an argument with this limb or that organ. I have ideas about what I want to do and then every part of me gangs up against the plan.

So, today, I want to go for a walk. After half a mile, my heart and lungs rail against the idea of going further. It’s absurd, they mutter. The man’s an idiot. Does he not realise, the heart enquires, that I can no longer pump at the same pace I once did? That’s why he has to feed me the tablets. That’s why he often has a stick.

Sit down, you silly old duffer, it screams at me.

Too right mate – this from way down below. It’s my knees joining in the conversation. We’re knackered, and he’s carrying too much weight, anyway. Even with one of us already bolstered by spare parts, it’s too much of a burden.

Actually, knees, comes a whisper from below, it’s us carrying all the weight, and compensating for you. Oh, heck, even my feet have an opinion.

Ah, put a sock in it, mate - my knees cry back. They’re really fired up now.

Actually, I correct them all, it’s put a sock on it – with feet. Get it?

Shut up. It’s my lungs speaking now. It’s all your fault. All these aches and pains and things not working properly. All this short of breath nonsense. If you’d looked after your parts when you were younger, we all wouldn’t be in this mess now.

I get angry with my lungs. Listen, you old windbags, I tried to look after you all; plenty of exercise, loads of sport, and always on the go. I’ve never been a couch potato, and no-one has ever called me lazy. (Well, if they did, it must have been a whisper, because I never heard them.)

Oh, listen to him. I’ve never been a lazy potato, no, not me. 

I’m growing to hate my knees and as I consider their fate, a sharp pain in my shoulder and my lower back makes me groan.

There, says my shoulder, that’s what happens if you play all that squash and golf and cricket – and then go jogging to keep fit.

And what was all that running from the edge of that enormous field about? Just to wind your arms around like a demented windmill, flailing and grunting. Why didn’t you just throw the ball gently at the guy who wanted to hit it? It would have made things much easier for both of you.

Yes, why didn’t you? My lower back has joined in the conversation.

Yes, exactly, and pounding on us all the time? What was that about? Running around a small room, hitting a little ball, and then crashing into the wall.

I really wish my knees would shut up, artificial bits and all.

I have a solid defence as I’ve tried to explain before. I was enjoying myself and keeping fit at the same time. None of you complained 40, even 35 years ago.

That’s because, my aging friend, you were three stones lighter back then.

Was I? Three whole imperial stones? Never.

You sure were.

I think I recognise that voice. It could be my memory.

You’re sure? I feel compelled to keep asking, but deep down, I know it’s futile.

I think back and also check with Mrs B. Yes; I was 6ft 6ins and under 15 stones. Now I’m two inches shorter and much heavier. That sounds absurd - shrinking and growing at the same time?

But I still ask once more. You’re not confusing me with someone else?

How can I? I’m your memory, and yes, I’m sure. Very sure.

Oh, hell, it seems that’s something else on the blink.