There once was a time I was dying. Not figuratively, mind you. My liver was almost shot, I was starting to take on that lovely yellow hue to my skin, and I didn’t much want to live anyway. I picked out my viaduct more than once and woke up just before smashing into a tree once. I looked back on that particular day with regret. Not because I was drunk and fell asleep at the wheel, but because I woke up and missed the tree. I didn’t finish it because I was a wuss. I was scared. I didn’t want it to hurt.
Those days are long gone.
I went for a checkup last night. The doctor actually used the word, “Perfect” when describing my health. Blood pressure, 120/78. Heart rate 46 bpm. Lung capacity is obviously stellar.
This is my tale of two lives.
One spent boozing, smoking and doing dope, with nothing to show for my existence, and miserable. The other spent sober, married, a father, running, cycling, and happy. The effects of my misspent youth are gone. My liver is functioning as it was intended, my lung function is vastly better than average, and most important, my mental status is fantastic.
It’s been a lot of years since I put down the bottle but one thing is certain:
I’m healthier, by every measure there is, at 48 than I was at 22, and for that I am grateful.