My Beautiful Left Arm

The bicep and some surrounding muscles on my left arm have stopped working. It is not, generally, painful but is inconvenient. I can push but not pull, I struggle to put my backpack on, I drop plates and cups of coffee that I attempt, having briefly forgotten my infirmity, to pick up. Initially I attributed this to some minor strain but after a visit to a physiotherapist the possibility of it being somewhat more serious became apparent and I started a series of examinations and tests. Some were painful, all slightly humiliating, I have to this point enjoyed rude health so had little experience of being poked, punctured and prodded.

The tests seem to indicate injury rather than illness, though nothing can be definite. My brief brush with mortality and the more dire diagnoses have been largely discounted. Not an experience I would care to repeat. The bottom line is that, probably, it is not a good idea for a man of my age to repeatedly attempt acrobatic headstands. Who knew? I guess I will have to keep this in mind.

Anyway, this is not really the point. By way of working out what was the matter with me I had, amongst other things, a full neurological workout. I pulled, I pushed, I was struck with a hammer, I looked this way and that, I was stuck with a pin, I hopped about in my underwear. Not good. The worst however was still to come: I received a copy of the letter between the neurologist and the neurosurgeon who had referred me. In the letter I am described in the careful, matter of fact, language of the medic. I am seen entirely neutrally and, how shall I put it, materially. My age, weight, baldness, habits of life are recounted. My test results are catalogued. My scans are related to anatomical features. I would not have it otherwise, this is after all science ... or near enough. Still, I see myself but I do not recognise myself. Reduced to my essential physical substance I am led to wonder about the various trappings I assume, about my roles and identities. It is a salutary experience, in more than one way, and perhaps the just payment for my saltatory experience.