Deregulation

Life is what one wants in one's soul. - D. H. Lawrence in the Zen Calendar (May 2, 2007)

Day 94. Friday took a long time to get here.

Remember that doctor's appointment earlier this week? The one that gave me a fresh opportunity to express my wariness of western medicine? May I reiterate?

Seems I am deregulated. I have official looking papers designating me as such. Official results, no doubt, from some expensive laboratory. My ticket of legitimacy for feeling like utter and complete crap. Inevitably, the papers included two new prescriptions, compliments of the western-trained practitioner whom I like and respect. I know that for some people out of range numbers on "lab work" can bring a sense of relief and validation: "I'm not making this up. I'm not a malingerer OR a hypochondriac. Something really is wrong. See? I have the papers to prove it." With me, not so much. I think modern diagnostic medicine provides way too much data. Most of the time, the only pragmatic application of the data is a polysyllabic label for something, and some uninterpretable numbers. Meanwhile, we all keep feeling like crap.

In a nutshell, my data told me that successive heat incidents fried my adrenal gland, which no longer communicates effectively with my thyroid, resulting in a constantly activated "flight or fight" response. I'm always on Red Alert. Which makes me tired. Weary. Exhausted. But I would make a heckuva paramedic!

I in no way mean to be disrespectful of all the wonderful things modern diagnostics do for us. It just seems as though the knowledge of what ails us is increasing disproportionately to knowledge about what makes us feel better. I don't find comparing my cholesterol ratio or my T3 count to be stimulating conversation. I'd much rather talk about miles cycled and ravines traversed. I do not have the personality to be slowed by physiological malfunctioning. I have always coped through moving. And by moving, I mean literally moving my body. Gross motor coordination is my strong suit. Until the past year, it was my panacea.

On good days, I can be brave and strong and good humored and philosophically comic about a condition that renders me physically immobile. I believe the Universe has a quirky and sometimes twisted sense of humor. I also believe in the indomitable human spirit, which triumphs over much larger tragedies than a fizzled adrenal system. On not-so-good days I am miserable and frustrated and mad. I entertain secret ruminations of popping the tires of every cyclist on the road when I cannot be among them. While "resting" (one of the required remedies of this particular malaise) my mind makes agitated pirouettes around irrelevant conundrums in a futile attempt to dissipate the energy my body cannot discharge. Being still off the cushion sucks.

When this thing was first brought to my attention a year ago, I was grounded from the bike for a while. Nearly went out of my mind, so I purchased a hooked rug kit and took up scrap booking. I made exactly seven pages for my son's football scrapbook. Never opened the rug. I went to a fire walk in June, felt better, and pedaled in moderation for the rest of the summer. One day I will write in detail about the fire walk. When I am not so tired.

I won't be riding tomorrow, which leaves a gaping hole in my Saturday, and an even bigger one in my heart. I will take this to my cushion. What else is there to do?

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc