My House of Pain

Every morning, I take an inventory of what hurts and how. It's actually forced on me, because the pain often interrupts my sleep and wakes me after only four or five hours.  

For the last year I've been coping with throbbing pain related to three root canals. "You're a great patient," my charming, patient dentist says, a man who always looks as tanned and relaxed as if he's just gotten back from a month in Aruba.  "But your teeth are a challenge."  

He's not kidding. Even a simple cleaning by a hygienist will require some kind of pain medication afterwards because my mouth will be on fire.  And with any dental work at all I can need over half a dozen injections of anesthetic—sometimes more, and afterwards even my beard feels numb.

As for those root canals? One didn't work at all, was redone, failed a second time, and I had to have the tooth pulled. The sequel to that was of course more pain. Sometimes constant, sometimes intermittent, sometimes stabbing, sometimes diffuse.

Then there's the arthritis in my hands and feet. I've had thumb reconstruction on both hands due to bone spurs and general deterioration, but my arthritis has gotten worse since each surgery and my hands are as accurate as The Weather Channel: they tell me when a storm is coming and are always right.  

I've also had one bone spur removed from my left foot and one due to be removed from my right foot after years of jogging (which are thankfully well behind me). Both feet ache—you guessed it—when the weather is changing.

I am not happy being a barometer.

Friends have tried consoling me saying, "Pain builds character."  

But seriously, if I don't have enough character in my sixties, then it's time for reincarnation.