Doctor's Appointment
Early this morning I am supposed to go to the clinic for the yearly medical check-up.
Every time this happens I am reminded of, and irresistibly prompted to post here, a passage from the opening of one of my most often thumbed books, Margueite Yourcenar's "Hadrian's Memoirs."
Hadrian is also readying himself to see his doctor. He is a mere 60 years old but by the standards of his time he is already an old man and at the point of packing it all in, even though he is nothing less than the ruler of the entire Roman world. Not the whole world as even today many Euro-centric people like to think but at least the Roman part, which was still considerable enough.
Usually even if something is bothering me I downplay it whenever I visit the doctor, though I have known him personally for many years -- he is highly competent and he is also one of those rare physicians who is perfectly happy to pursue his career in the quietest of rural areas. But this time I will be unable to avoid mentioning a couple of complaints. For several months my elimination system has been in some sort of unstable state, and I think arthritis has gained a tight grip on my left thumb, which I am no longer able to bend without pain. And I have the impression that there are one or two other things, which, however, seem to have conspired to escape my mind, maybe because they could easily just be the results of my next birthday, which is looming just ahead.
Yet all in all I am highly grateful for my general physical state. I don't get much done from one day to the next but I feel okay most of the time and all my faculties are still in working order, even if slightly impaired here and there.
Anyway, here in Ms Yourcenar's (and her translator's) matchless languege is one of the "good" emperors:
Do not mistake me: I am not yet weak enough to yield to fearful imaginings, which are almost as fearful as illusions of hope, and certainly harder to bear. If I must deceive myself I should prefer to stay on the side of confidence, for I shall lose no more there and shall suffer less. This approaching end is not necessarily immediate: I still retire each night with hope to see the morning. Within those absolute limits of which I was just now speaking, I can defend my position step by step and even regain a few inches of lost ground. I have nevertheless reached the age where life for every man is accepted defeat.
Hmmm. Even though I am already nearly two decades older than he was at that point, I have absolutely no sense of "accepted defeat." Among other possible reasons, could that be because of my much greater good luck in having never experienced the numerous victories of an all-powerful emperor?
Every time this happens I am reminded of, and irresistibly prompted to post here, a passage from the opening of one of my most often thumbed books, Margueite Yourcenar's "Hadrian's Memoirs."
Hadrian is also readying himself to see his doctor. He is a mere 60 years old but by the standards of his time he is already an old man and at the point of packing it all in, even though he is nothing less than the ruler of the entire Roman world. Not the whole world as even today many Euro-centric people like to think but at least the Roman part, which was still considerable enough.
Usually even if something is bothering me I downplay it whenever I visit the doctor, though I have known him personally for many years -- he is highly competent and he is also one of those rare physicians who is perfectly happy to pursue his career in the quietest of rural areas. But this time I will be unable to avoid mentioning a couple of complaints. For several months my elimination system has been in some sort of unstable state, and I think arthritis has gained a tight grip on my left thumb, which I am no longer able to bend without pain. And I have the impression that there are one or two other things, which, however, seem to have conspired to escape my mind, maybe because they could easily just be the results of my next birthday, which is looming just ahead.
Yet all in all I am highly grateful for my general physical state. I don't get much done from one day to the next but I feel okay most of the time and all my faculties are still in working order, even if slightly impaired here and there.
Anyway, here in Ms Yourcenar's (and her translator's) matchless languege is one of the "good" emperors:
Do not mistake me: I am not yet weak enough to yield to fearful imaginings, which are almost as fearful as illusions of hope, and certainly harder to bear. If I must deceive myself I should prefer to stay on the side of confidence, for I shall lose no more there and shall suffer less. This approaching end is not necessarily immediate: I still retire each night with hope to see the morning. Within those absolute limits of which I was just now speaking, I can defend my position step by step and even regain a few inches of lost ground. I have nevertheless reached the age where life for every man is accepted defeat.
Hmmm. Even though I am already nearly two decades older than he was at that point, I have absolutely no sense of "accepted defeat." Among other possible reasons, could that be because of my much greater good luck in having never experienced the numerous victories of an all-powerful emperor?
posted by Carl (aka Sofarsogoo) | 6:35 AM
1 Comments:
I hope the doctor finds everything well and that the issues you are having turn out to be minor and easily fixable.
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