But this is Chico, too

I no longer bounce out of bed. I wriggle into a sitting position at the side of the bed, then use a chair to hoist myself into a standing position.

Once I’m out of bed I no longer bound across the room. I take a step and say ouch, then take five halting steps before hitting my stride.

Every day I wake up and face that fact that I’m wearing out. Throughout the day I’m also reminded of this. I sit down sigh and groan as I get up again.

Then there are the aches and pains that are there regardless of whether I move. I remember my grandmother telling me, “I’d give anything to have your pain-free body.” All I could think of at the time was that I wasn’t going to worry about it for another 40 years.

In a flash, all of those years have gone by. Now, I’ve reached the point when there’s not a moment that a part of me isn’t hurting.

But it’s not just the hurting. There are things going on that I can’t even feel.

When my blood lab report comes back, I no longer have straight A’s. In fact, I recently got a C- in glucose, triglyceride and prostate specific antigen levels.

My weight is out of control and my blood pressure is getting harder to control. My digestive enzymes keep threatening to eat up my pancreas.

Last year, I had my gallbladder removed. What will be the next organ to go?

I have cataracts in my eyes and ringing in my ears.

When people ask me how I am, there’s potentially so much to talk about. I want to tell them “not so good,” and then recite the things that are wrong. So far, I’ve been able to stifle myself with everyone except my closest friends and relatives.

Four months ago, my aunt, who is only 13 years older than I am, was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. I’m worried about her, so I’ve been talking to her on the phone every week. We use this time to catch up on each other’s maladies. She’s amazed at how adept doctors have become at figuring out what’s wrong with us: The endless battery of tests and procedures we are put through, and then all the pills we have to take. She tells me she remembers a time when people just sort of went along for years not knowing what was wrong with them and then dropped dead.

There are times when I think she wishes those days would return.

Chico is a good place to be when you’re starting to fall apart. Tending to the sick is one of its main industries, exceeded only by education and, perhaps, the running of cash registers. In the last couple of months, I’ve seen my regular doctor twice, visited two specialists, had a couple of blood draws and undergone an MRI. In a few weeks, I’m having an ultrasound-guided biopsy. I’m doing all of this without having to leave Chico.

What dreary people we become as we grow older, obsessing about our disintegrating bodies. When I was young, everything worked. I barely knew I had a body. My mind was my identity. But my failing body is asserting itself, working its way into my consciousness. Chronic illness is boring, depressing and frightening — boring because it never lets up, depressing because it saps my energy and frightening because it could kill me.