Saturday, December 21, 2019

Auto-Immune


Somebody once told me I was my own worst enemy. He was right. I now find myself with two auto-immune diseases, as if one weren’t enough though neither appears to be an existential threat. I seem to be doing combat with myself, genes attacking their cousins. As Tarzan said to Jane, it’s a jungle out there. My money is on my body to win. The system is rigged.

I suppose my fate is predetermined by some sort of genetic code. But maybe triggered by political aggravation or even that Perfect phone call I never made. I’ve always wanted to make a perfect phone call. Like:

Hello, Domino?  I’d like to order a large mushroom pizza. Twenty minutes? Fine. The name is Norm. You say you won’t make the pizza until I get dirt on Papa John. You just ruined my perfect phone call.

I don’t think pizza is the magic bullet against my immune system. I need to tamp it down. It’s un-hinged, raging like a deranged President.

Dear Immune System: I know it must be hard living with me all these years but can’t we talk? Have I offended you? Did you know you a have reputation of being fickle….or is that just your finger? Twisted, I would say. You’re a wild stallion, a marauder (I’ve never used that word before. See what you’ve done.)

There’s no need to enervate my muscles, stiffen my shoulders and inflame my connective tissue. True, maybe I’ve neglected you but I really do feel emotionally attached and you have an unlisted number.

All I can do now is suppress you. Muffle your pugnacity. Cut you off at the pass. I’ve let loose my terrible swift sword of Steroids. Please, no nuclear option. All I ask is a just peace with honor. A velvet regime change. I’d settle for peaceful coexistence as long as you know your place on the outskirts of my bodily precincts.  

Relax. Have a piece of fruit. Deep breaths. Can you feel my warm milk of kindness running through every vein? Yes, I see your lids are getting heavy. Just sit back and listen the music. I read somewhere that Wittgenstein’s brother lost an arm in World War I. He was a piano virtuoso and Ravel composed a concerto for left-hand alone. I offer this as proof of something but I forget what. We do have our arsenal of compensations.

Go on, have your fun with me. I'm starting to laugh at you, you, irascible old fool with nothing better to do with your haploids and double helix.

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