subtext

One’s own mortality is rarely of interest to anyone else. At risk of becoming another stereotype of the tedious old man, I try not to belabor the deterioration of my body; yet, I am haunted by it nonetheless. Eighteen months ago I had a minor stroke. The doctors don’t call it that anymore it is some string of three letters, which I have lost among the dozens of three letter acronyms they toss about like beads at Mardi Gras. Or perhaps my memory is going: how would I know? Six months ago after twenty years of back pain, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc between the L5 and L4 vertebrae. All I know is that the pain is severe and it doesn’t go away as it did 24 years ago when I first had a “sore” back. For decades my hair has become thinner and thinner, and my height does little to hide the obvious bald spot the way it did years ago. Symptoms of aging might vary in degree, but not in their implications: We are only here for a short while. I think much of this, in addition to finally reaching a point with my family (the kids are old enough not to require constant attention) are the motivational factors in my returning to grad school. George Eliot said that one is never to old to become what one wanted to be. One’s identity is constantly shifting and being formed, I also think one’s past undergoes the same process. We reinterpret what has happened to better fit the present we believe we are in. (Hmmmm: the old joke about the meaning of Phd: piled hip deep comes to mind here).