This is an account of the mess I managed to get myself into as I approached retirement, but which has its roots in my boyhood, and the thrilling aspect of contact sports. First was football, then lacrosse and the occasional and spirited crashes while on duty as a Ski Patroller. The distance running that I did while trying to keep my fitness quotient up as the Navy sought to downsize after our victory in the Cold War was another contributing factor, but I enjoyed them all in their time. There is something about completing a marathon that is intensely satisfying. But that said, the pounding my joints absorbed did deep and profound damage over the years.

The compiled list of injuries was daunting, but I was able to put it aside until my last sea duty on USS Coronado. It was when navigating the ladders and knee-knockers that I realized there was a deep and lasting pain. It even had a color- a magenta-colored malaise that radiated from knees and shoulders and began to impose a constant and irritating pain that radiated from knees to neck.

I talked to the strange institution of the Veteran’s Administration when I decided to retire in 2003. I could no longer run, and it was time to turn in the uniform. The retirement process involved a medical evaluation, and I was moderately surprised to discover the VA considered me 40% disabled. It was a relief to know that the situation was real, and not a manifestation of my mental gymnastics.

Retirement from the military is regrettably not sufficient to put kids through college and deal with the aftermath of divorce. Sadly, the pain intensified as the osteoarthritic symptoms continued to increase. By late in the first decade of the new century, the pain had become constant and pervasive. I did some research and identified a local physician who specialized in pain management. He prescribed a couple drugs, and I was pleased to have the pain diminish. The unfortunate aspect was that the relaxing nature of the medication also caused a loosening of my tongue, and led to a couple minor incidents in the workplace when I actually blurted out what I really thought about co-workers and their sometimes strange ideas about effective strategies for success in business.

I realized that unvarnished honesty was only going to cause problems, or wind up with me being hauled in front of the dread HR board. I quit taking the medication, and despite the return of the magenta monster, I managed to keep my mouth shut and stay employed even as the slow and painful process continued. While attempting to care for my folks as they prepared to leave this world for the next one I tripped on the stairs and tore my left quadriceps. A few months later my increasingly awkward locomotion caused another fall that tore it apart completely. Treatment was complicated by the deaths of Mom and Dad, and by the time I got to Walter Reed for reconstructive surgery, things were getting alarming.

My hat is off to the Army docs who managed to connect the tissue deep in my thigh, but walking was becoming a challenge, and now that full-time employment is behind me, I may have to return to a manageable list of medication. But getting around was becoming problematic and a matter of real concern.

I see those weird calendar coincidences all the time. You know, the time once in human history when the clocks go one-two-three-four etc. etc.

Some of them are kind of cool, and I enjoy. Them, though I usually forget to look, and the moment passes inexorably into human history. A moment when the sands in life’s hourglass are just right for an instant and then buried forever. There are other sequences that are personal, not particularly unique, but associated with personal milestones. I had one of those this week.

My personal milestone is a date in June, buried in history that now seems forever ago. Specifically, mine is a date in early June- in the Truman Administration- of 1951. I write it frequently, since a lot of the trashier websites use it to authenticate my identity, as if it were unique. Mine is not that. I imagine several thousand- maybe a hundred thousand or so- of other people share it.

Sixty-nine years years ago, plus a few dozen hours, Mrs. Socotra began to feel some discomfort, and I, her first bouncing babe, was born at about seven in the morning. Da was there at the hospital, but was having a piece of apple pie in the cafeteria. First experiences are like that. No one is quite sure how it all works from a timing perspective, but I bet Dad finished his pie.

There was a fair amout of activity surrounding this birthday. A former colleague passed from this world into the arms of Eternity when he was sixty-eight. One of my goals for this year was to beat his total. There was some question about that for me, since I may (or may not) have got sucked into the COVID-19 miasma in late January. People in general and family in particular were alarmed. Not me. I was out of it in the ICU, and felt strangely good when they roused me in the rehab wing of the hospital. The dreams were really cool; vivid beyond belief, and filled with the conviction that the hospital was part of a foreign military exercise I vaguely recalled, or alternatively in another state.

I chafed to get released, but I was stuck in custody for another few weeks as Grace and the kids became much more alarmed than I was. Apparently one of the ICU docs gave my younger son the dread “If he fights tonight, he may make it.”

But like I said, I passed through the drama all unknowing and unconcerned.

I knew something was going on before that. I was motoring down to the farm around the holidays of 2019 and began to get dizzy at the wheel. I have always prided myself on my motoring skills, so that flipped me out. I quit driving the Mercedes at the conclusion of that truly amazing transit, and the car slowly died from inactivity. The dizziness continued, and the inevitable happened. I took a fall on my way out to the back-deck landing flat on my face, broke my nose, knocked the veneer off my front teeth and gained an impressive technicolor concussion.

My landscape guy happened to come by as I was sitting outside bleeding copiously, the little mental birdies chirping between my ears at disturbing volume. A heroic trail of red following my path from the living room to the outside. He wanted to take me to the hospital, but I was hearing none of it, and with all the other medical emergencies erupting, I considered formal medical intervention to be the last thing I wanted to deal with. Frank mopped up the blood, and I spent the next couple weeks in increasing uncertainty about how to manage expeditions to the rest room and the refrigerator. And then I had no choice nor decision in going to the ICU, nor any recollection of how I got there.

Whatever the dizziness issue was persistent and complicated by the fact that my attempts at walking were becoming minor adventures but seemingly manageable. Problems seemed to fade once I got back down to the farm, and Grace took great care of me, though her patience was a finite commodity. I couldn’t walk with any certainty, and the hospital issued me one of those old fart four wheel carts. I already had a cane, so once back in the house, I could begin to plot exotic destinations around the interior.

Which is what led to the acute pneumonia that landed me in the ICU, and might have been the dread COVID which was announced by Dr. Fauci and the Commies at the World Health Organization on about day two of my institutional confinement. That was all swirling around in full bloom by the time I could think again, and counting it up, I left the property twice in eight weeks. There was slow improvement over the last month, and two weeks ago I began to make short unassisted forays to both the refrigerator and the toilet. It was pretty cool, and I set myself some rigorous goals.

I wanted to make it to my birthday and set that as a firm goal. I am blessed to have a solid cadre of good pals, and I started down the list of the older ones to ensure that if I slipped up, they would know how much I cared about the friendship they have given me down through the years. If I haven’t called yet, it is only because you are too young. I think I patched up some family relations, and felt like things were actually getting better.

Finally, the birthday arrived. People told me to have a great time, and I watched as much television as usual. A wild time. It was a relief to have it out of the way. But there were other issues. The fridge died with its magnificent ice-making capability. The Mercedes and the truck were both dead as doornails, so I had to hire a truck to have the car shipped to the Dealer up in Arlington. That was repaired in short order, and the new fridge has an icemaker, though it isn’t attached to anything in particular. I was also broke, flat ass.

Plenty of money in the bank, but of course the banks were closed due to the pandemic. No cash. I thought I could remedy it, but I was alone in the house and without transportation.

My son and his lovely girlfriend drove it down with his car, and with mobility restored, I began to plot a course of action to get to the bank. The birthday came and went, and I was determined to take decisive action. Yesterday morning I showered (risky business that), shaved and put on a clean shirt. I found a recent statement showing my riches, a mask and a crisp shirt and clean jeans. I hadn’t driven in months, so there was a teetering journey with the cane out to the car, which actually started. I remembered vaguely how to drive, and actually left the property on my own initiative. The one thing I forgot to do was call the bank and ensure they were open, but driving kept my attention focused on the road and of course the bank was closed when I got there. Oh well. I also discovered that the Chinese restaurant had terminated delivery options, just like the plumbing company.

I motored home somewhat chastened and now fully aware that I had no idea how society was working in plague times. I have no idea if our Governor has declared liquor stores as essential activities. I certainly hope so.

So that is a mass of knowledge I will have to acquire somehow. But what the hell. I am sixty-nine. Considering the alternatives, it was a most rewarding one.

Copyright 2020 Vic Socotra
http://www.vicsocotra.com