When I was young my body was me. I would look in the mirror with wonder as I grew taller and muscles filled in and hair began to grow and other miracles occurred. And much of life was about indulging and reveling in my body: playing sports, eating, thrill-seeking, getting to know girls. Of course there was a lot going on in my mind as well, but it wasn't as much fun as the stuff with my body.

Now my body isn't me anymore, it's just the vessel that is carrying me. It's just the shell that is housing my heart, my soul, my consciousness, the stuff that matters. And it's not working very well anymore, in fact it's verging on epic fail. (I like that expression, "epic fail", though I generally hate pop language. But epic fail works).

We come into this world with such beautiful, pristine bodies - in most cases, anyway. And then in the process of living, we wreak havoc upon them. I've always wanted to do this, to write down the damage I've inflicted on this body. So here goes, bottom up:

Torn ankle ligaments
Repeated sprained ankles, mostly due to the torn ligaments
Cracked tibia
Nerve damage in calf and foot (see back injury, below)
(no knee injuries ever!)
Hamstring pull or tear, not sure which, but it was a bad one
Compressed disks in lower back, and subsequent nerve damage
Pinched nerve in neck
Broken growth plate in elbow
Broken nose
Stitches in 6 places on my face and head, all from separate incidents
Two concussions (I think)

I've carried these as a badge of honor, a testament to toughness and the spirit to live hard. It would probably be more accurate to chalk most of them up to recklessness and stupidity. But fortunately, the only one that really has been an on-going problem is the lower back injury, and it's always been manageable.

Obviously I'm in a different era now. I'm watching my body deteriorate, and it's disheartening, to use about the mildest phrase I can . I've lost about 15 pounds so far, and my waist is down to 31 inches, about where it was in 7th grade. I made the mistake of trimming my hair too short, and because of the chemo, it's not growing back. My beard hardly grows at all; I shave about once per week. I feel like I've gone from looking 45 to looking 75 in two months. I look more like my dad every day; in fact I look more like him than he does. This is not a bad thing, he's pleasing to look at at age 87.

I once had fairly well developed butt and leg muscles, and they have departed for greener pastures. My gluteus maximus has become gluteus minimus. I have discovered once-hidden cheekbones and hollow cheeks, and I have a little more skin than necessary to cover everything. I do a double-take when I see the old guy in the mirror.

I have a port implanted in my chest for the chemo infusions. It feels just like you might expect, to have a plastic disk stuck just under my skin. It's no big deal, but I hate to look at it or touch it.

(Aside: I have never understood tattoos and piercings. Why, why, why would one choose to mar perfection? I'll never get used to them, even when everyone has them.)

But finally, none of this really matters. I realized very early, I think hour one of my diagnosis, that how my body comes out of this ordeal is of no consequence at all. I am concerned that I will lose too much weight and become frightening to my family and myself (but I'm not going to write any more down that track). This disease is going to do it's damage to my body, and it's not likely to ever be the same. But all that really does matter is that I come out on the other side and am here to be with my family and friends. In the end, my body, your body, all of our bodies are just rental cars that move us from origination to destination. It's alarming to watch what's happening to mine, but I just need it to get me home. And I still have miles to go before I sleep.