The Itch That Predicted Everything

I often fear when an annoying ailment surfaces in my body, I will be permanently scarred, burdened, or hindered by it. Serious afflictions, you understand. A tingling thumb. A hitch in my knee. A bump on my tongue.

How many times have I had such experiences in my 84 years? Dozens? Hundreds? I don’t know, because most of them never announced a permanent condition. They appeared, irritated me, and left without even saying goodbye.

But at this age, I worry each one may be “the sign.” This is it, I think. This is the beginning of the end. This tingling thumb is clearly sending a message from headquarters.

I don’t remember worrying this way as a five-year-old, or even at thirty-three. Back then, I dabbed something with cream, ignored it, or complained briefly that my tongue hurt. No worries, mate, as the Aussies would say.

I wasn’t 84. I still walked, ran, or skipped toward the next challenge. I never thought my life might be ending because an insect bite itched. Such things were irritations, not prophecies.

Perhaps I didn’t have time to worry back then. Now I have more room for pondering, and that can be dangerous. My bones break a mite quicker, my walks around the block become slower and more daring, and my mind takes up a steady chant of what if, what if, what if.

It’s not the gray hair, or the thinning hair, or finding myself in a room without the faintest idea why I’m there. No, what drives me nuts is wondering whether all these things are permanent.

Rest assured, I tell myself, some probably are At least there is one benefit to worrying about the future at my age. The concern rarely lasts long. Before I can fully convince myself a sore knee means disaster, a new ache appears demanding equal attention. The old worry is promptly discarded into the same mental trash basket where I put my reading glasses, grocery list, and reason for walking into the kitchen.

Which, come to think of it, may be the best defense against aging I’ve found so far.