As I write this, I am on hold with my bank. The repetitive music loops back on itself at remarkably frequent intervals. Every 15 seconds I am invited to speak to a customer representative. Nothing new about this experience. The question is why am I bothering right now? After all, it is well known that this waiting on hold, particularly with a ghastly repeating music soundtrack, is like driving a rusty nail into your head. Still, I am determined, absolutely determined. I can deal with the matter tomorrow. But that is the thing. I am not utterly convinced in tomorrow. I feel that time is running out with unprecedented rapidity. And there is more.
My body is running out of…I don’t even know. Stamina. Resilience. Will. I see a physical therapist at home about once a week. I see a Rolfer, a particularly skilled body worker who is about to graduate as an osteopath, about once a week also. In other words, in this particular country where medical care is so poorly available, I am very lucky. Still, while grateful, on this day the whole thing seems oppressive. I realized listening to my Rolfer this morning that he was providing excellent advice, and I didn’t care. I wasn’t listening. And that really worries me. There was some sort of overload happening.
See, I thought the problem with stretching my heel cord had to do with the ankle. Which, of course, it does, but what’s interfering with stretching has to do with the front of my foot, it turns out. There’s a bone. There’s always a bone. And I have a bone to pick with anyone who wants to tell me what to do with my bones. Them bones, them bones, indeed.
Meanwhile, it’s hard to get comfortable. And there’s much more. It’s hard to get comfortable with myself because there’s so much I want to do. I published an article in the San Francisco Chronicle a few days ago. Readers sent me more email than I can deal with. But I am dealing with it. Any writer knows that publication is difficult. And readers are precious. So I keep trying, one by one, but I’m achy and running out of time. Which feels a lot like, and in that may be the same as, running out of life.
Did I mention that the Rail Passenger Association asked me to write an article? Just great. But I’m also writing a book. And nearing, well, the final third. It’s taking forever to get this far. The final third keeps stretching on, by the way. While the emails await. And the RPA article. And then there’s the other thing, entirely different.
I had planned to get back to driving. I haven’t driven a car in a year. Why? Well, there was the pandemic. But frankly, that provided good cover. My fear level was high. Driving has scared me for a long time. And here the picture gets fuzzy. Yes, I am a incomplete quadriplegic tooling around San Francisco in his adapted vehicle. All my friends applaud me. And that’s nice. But I also know that I have a fear level, and that hails back to my shooting more than 50 years ago. Why driving? Why should this be the focus of phobia? I find that question quite interesting. I have long had dreams, I mean for decades, a recurring dream of driving and losing the brakes. Long before I was in San Francisco, living in the very flat Peninsula, I had this dream of brake loss, I’m driving and going out of control. There’s always been something there.
And strangely there’s something there, and there isn’t something there in my checking account. Truly. I wrote checks in December, hefty ones to pay property taxes, and there is absolutely no record of them. I have made two calls to my bank. People there are mystified. The county assessors who got and cashed the checks aren’t. For them, mission accomplished. For me, frustration. I’m sure that if I leave this situation unattended, it will only get worse. I have credit for money I don’t have. The wages of sin. The minimum wages of sin. And so on at the First National Bank of Kafka.
And do I get back behind the wheel? Well, conquering my fear would feel good. Can’t argue with that. But I also can’t argue with my body. I’ve lost range of motion in my ankle, Critical to shifting my working left foot from brake to accelerator. Will it come back? Will there be a tomorrow.? Will it rain? That’s a much better question.