Regular readers might assume that I no longer suffer from that strange disease known as pleurisy.  Wrong!  Pleurisy has returned in the last week along with its myriad physical offerings that it lays at my door in a strange sort of tribute: these include shortness of breath and burning sensations in my chest.  Joy.  I have had to curtail my activities at the gym.  Again.  I have made modifications to my diet to accommodate the fact that I am exercising less.  Again.  Normally I’d like to be the type to eat big and live big.  But I find myself a puny mouse compared to the man I was circa December 2007, before all this started.

Go to the doctor?  That does sound like a very sensible idea… except that I’ve tried it five times already in under three months.  I even had to go to the doctor for a medical exam prior to starting work at my job.  I’ve given blood and urine tests.  So I’m about tuckered out with the prodding and poking and cross-examination of my body.  Unless I think death is imminent, I think I’ll just deal with this on my own.

One exercise still open to me is…  walking!  I like to walk.  I’ve been in Griffintown and Old Montreal quite a lot recently and I’m thinking of a drift through Littly Italy today.  These jaunts provide consolation.

Pleurisy has been in my life so long now that I consider it one of the regular torments of my physical and emotional life.  I am sure that everyone has their own equivalents.  You recognize negative thoughts or feelings or pains… You think to yourself, “Here we go again!” Then you try equip yourself as best you can to deal with them. 

Really, though, my lot in life is so good.  On my last job interview up in St Eustache, I drove up feeling a bit anxious and sorry for myself.  My health then, as it is now, was neither good nor bad.  It was just dissatisfyingly mediocre.  As I drove into the industrial quarter where my now-employer is situated, I passed a sign warning people of the dangers of driving drunk.  Looking out at me from the sign was a woman with her face horribly burned.

Of course, as Anne Frank said in her diary (I’m paraphrasing here) it is not always a consolation to know that there is someone whose lot is worse than your own.  But sometimes it does pay to remember it.

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