Mortal Reminders

My thoughts have been drifting towards my impending death with more frequency as of late.  I’m not depressed, pessimistic, terminally ill, emo, or even slightly glum.  I just see the signs, and it occurs to me I won’t be around forever.  I don’t know if I’m alone here, but I rarely attribute all the death and dying in the world as the inevitable ending for myself.  I’m a physically fit, financially stable, married, mentally healthy (depending on who you ask), confident, young man.  Basically, I’m a bad ass.

The perpetual chinks in my armor, however, illuminate my ultimate vulnerability as of late.  This year I have had my head split open, sprained my toe and ankle, had the flu, and The Black Spot (still fighting this shit, by the way).  Not to much in the grand scheme of things, but enough to remind me my strong body will one day be ash.

What’s the point of this admittedly dark post?




To have this read at my eulogy:

“Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, totally worn out and proclaiming, ‘WOW, WHAT A RIDE!!!”

The Courtesy Call and The Black Spot

I went to the doctor for The Black Spot.  It’s no curse, just a nasty illness.  I have Staph Impetigo!  I likely picked up this insidious infection while grappling.  So now, I get to take a full load of antibiotics and not go the gym or train (or compete in the Throwdown tournament) for a couple weeks.  Since I picked it up grappling and have trained since then, I did the courtesy of calling my training partners to inform them.  Here’s how it went with one of my partners named “G”:

telephoneMe: Hey, we need to talk.

G: Sure, what’s up?

Me: Remember that night when we got sweaty and rolled around together? It was that Monday night when we just kind of  “ended up” at the gym at the same time?  

G: Yes, yes.  Of course I remember that night.  How could I forget…

Me: Well, the doctor told me I have impetigo.  I, uh, thought you should know.  You should get tested. 

                                              G: …

                                              Me: I’m so sorry, G!

                                              G: Whore! (click)

One call down, twenty to go.  Maybe I should learn to have some discretion with those I grapple with.

Filthy Swine and The Black Spot

The Swine got me!  I was in top shape for the upcoming jiujitsu tournament, and some sick prick had to hack and sputter all over me, effectively coating me with pig bugs.  I started coughing a little last Saturday and Sunday, but still felt fairly good.  Monday morning comes around, and BAM!  I was done for.  My hot nurse took good care of me, so I’m back up and good to go.

Except for one thing.  I have the The Black Spot!

black spotYup, straight out of The Pirates of the Caribbean, but that shit’s on my face! The Swine knocked my immune system down enough that The Black Spot saw its opportunity, swooped in, and took root by my mouth.  It’s not going away either, no matter what I slather on.  Hydrocortisone, lotion, vaseline, salves, ointments, ketchup… nothing!  I better go watch the movie again to figure out how Jack Sparrow got rid of the curse; apparently the cure doesn’t come in a bottle.