The New 90

I am 72. Which today for me is the new 90.

When last I left off, I was advising you of my rejuvenation. A miracle series of shots that would cure what ailed me for at least 6 months. Until one day, about 3 1/2 months in, it didn't. My back was back to abnormal.

Last week I received an epidural intended to quiet the bark and keep me upright and taking sustenance until I could literally burn my nerve endings again in April. Epidurals are hit or miss. Strike one.

So now I am in a fight with my right leg and lower back. I am losing on points and the ref is contemplating calling a TKO. I phoned my doctor today to report my irritation with my irritation and he ordered a medrol dose pack to calm my nerves and calm my nerves. Only it seems that my glaucoma might not appreciate the steroids. I will try to digest what my eye doctor has to offer before I try to digest what my back doctor has to offer.

I find it uncomfortable to complain about being uncomfortable when the significance of my malady is of no moment in comparison to what I witness at every turn with friends and family. But what am I if not consistent in detailing for you every consequence of consequence to me. You are in an endless cycle of having to absorb my self absorption.

I am what I am or more precisely what I am not. And whether you like it or not, you will hereinafter be apprised, chapter and verse, of the saga of my aching back. I am unfortunately back and worse than ever.