Happy anniversery to me… sort of.

One year ago today, the wound on my shoulder – the one that drills all the way to the bone – is a year old.

I’ve had it longer than a woman carries a child.
I’ve had it longer than most modern relationships.

That’s a long time for an incision – it’s not really a cut – it’s more like a well – to be open.

It continually produces infection.
It continually needs care.
But it’s the one that hurts the least. I don’t mind it so much and it serves as a standard for how much I can stand.

Like any good elder child, it shows the others what it can be — deep — but still kind of the most supportive given the circumstances.

The middle incision is kind of like the youngest child. It produces the most infection to keep attention, I guess, but is only a mild to medium annoyance. Since it’s the most recent, the limitations are unknown. It’s the baby and just keeps going.

The lower incision is definitely the middle child. It causes the most pain, tends to bring infection and blood, and invites friends along. I guess it thinks it’s funny by popping up dark spots, hiding them, and bringing them back. The spots that stay aren’t independent but link to together just under the surface.

It’s the socializer, the entertainer, and thinks it’s far smarter than what it actually is.

So, yes, I guess.

My three wounds – individual yet different – are kind of like my body’s children.

A bit gross, isn’t it?

This is mild compared to what’s coming up.

Right now, October 15th.
That’s when my children move out – with help from what I’m going to guess are scalpels, lasers, and maybe a diamond bone saw. Actually, probably not a maybe on that.

If not a diamond bone saw, probably a diamond — whatever it’s called to slice thick turkeys. You know, the long blade that vibrates back and forth.

But it’s got to be diamond and, hopefully, a good one.

My titanium and I won’t stand for anything less.

I need to remember to ask for a chunk of that titanium..

I think I earned it. I paid for it over the past twenty-plus years. It’s my souvenir. It’s a trophy that’ll I’ll keep until a future generation pawns it or tosses, not knowing or caring what it is.

Sad.
Sad.
Sad.

But it’s forward – sort of.

Just lowring my head, running, and trying not to look up or down.