We sicken and break; our
bodies don’t work as they should.
So there are surgeries and
chemistries, rest and exercise,
manipulation, fluids and vitamins,
braces, splints and slings. Often
we get better, we mend, and –
as some say – we get stronger
in the broken places. Physicians
can be magicians; therapists,
miracle workers. Wonder drugs
abound. But there is some truth
in what the poet wrote:
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.
Medicine is not always up to the
task. But imagine ten years from
now, or twenty: surgeries and
chemistries and therapies
that are unimaginable.
I am too old to wait for such
discoveries. For now, then, just
give me a good heart, a reasonable
universe and a purring cat asleep
on my lap, and I’ll be just fine.
