Don’t share works anymore, here’s my rig…
Those were the slangs for it back in the dark days. Carrying works with me, my rig. Yep, back in the smack attack days of the younger, foolish years. How ironic it’s become to me, now having to deal with “works” again. This time, for medical necessity.
I still remember how the reality of it all hit me in the face a few years ago. after diagnosis of illness or two, I asked the doc how long I have to take my pill medication, and he replied “for the rest of your life”. That was such a piercing statement into the reality of my health, the cycle of life, and my own mortality. There ain’t no getting back to 100%. There ain’t no invincibility. What it was was the moment of truth, though always knowing it in a “too far off to worry about it way”, of the permanent decline in health. And we all know the ultimate outcome, no matter whether from this ailment or that.
The irony of it all is in reflection of the crazy days of my teenage years… getting wrapped up in the smack attack days, mainlining, getting all junked up. I shook it off after almost going down the path of no return, partially thanks to the Army. Then, as I get older now, I return to syringes… this time insulin instead of scoring dime plates, and a glucose meter completes my ‘rig’ these days….
Gi fino’ Chamorro – Ai Adai…..