Fumble!!!

I can admit it.  A great athlete I am not.  And that is not just due to the fact that I am quite rapidly (and rather disturbingly) approaching fifty.  This is how I generally have always been and age is not something that tends to make one more nimble, quicker or better able to hit a fastball.

I was never the greatest athlete

Going back to my youth, as anyone from the church league basketball team of those years can attest, were it not for the fact that our bench was so short I probably would have logged a lot less playing action.  This is not surprising given that we were the only Jewish team in the league, which is also not surprising given that we lived in the middle of Appalachia.  Similarly, since I eventually topped out at just over six feet – which is quite tall for a Semite – I also was forced to generally occupy the position of power forward.  Perhaps nothing could less aptly describe me than that term as I was far from powerful and if forward were to imply that I would be aggressively going after loose balls and rebounds then the position was particularly ill-suited for me.  Even worse, sometimes I was forced to play center, including the time my good friend – and the only one taller than I on the roster – was ejected for allegedly uttering a mild swear term in reaction to a questionable foul called on him.  (It was, after all, church league.)  But, as unsuited for all of this as I may have been, I played for a number of years – although we were, of course, the only team not to play on Saturdays.  (You see, in Judaism, that is our sabbath.  Why some prefer Sunday to Saturday or even Friday I know not.  Saturdays do sort of chop up one’s weekend rather undesirably, I will admit.)

My lack of athletic prowess has only been reinforced for me as now my sons are entering the ages when they too must be subjected to sports participation.  In fact, my older son – just turned 10 – is also playing “religiously”-oriented hoops.  Oddly, given that we live in New York – where there are more members of our tribe than anywhere – there is no temple or synagogue team.  Instead, he plays with tempered zeal in the Catholic Youth League, on a team that is comprised of one or two others of our faith and probably not many more who actually are Catholic.  When I see him struggle to learn the proper technique for shooting or to not be willing to dive on the floor after an otherwise meaningless loose basketball, I think to myself, “Just like his old man.”  The apple did not fall far from the tree.  Regrettably.

An unexpected blood cancer treatment side effect: Clumsiness

Yet, despite my inability to secure an athletic scholarship to college, I was not terrible.  I was also far from clumsy or awkward.  Recently, however, this has all seemed to have changed.  Specifically, I have noticed in the last several months that whatever dexterity I once possessed has seemingly totally vanished.  I regularly spill things, drop items and even trip over my own feet, both of which I have possessed my entire life and therefore felt previously assured were fairly familiar to me.

I now find tasks such as carrying the dog’s water bowl from the sink to its designated spot on the floor at best a 50/50 proposition – about half of the time I spill enough of it out that I have to contemplate restarting the entire process.  I am also now quite prone to managing to knock over cans and other open-topped vessels that were, until I came along, positioned upright on our countertops.  In fact, this has become such a regular occurrence that now I no longer am going to purchase the Bounty paper towels with the “select-a-size” option – the option is gone.  I need full-size.  And all the absorbency they can muster.

This former New York City driver now struggles with driving

If it were just the occasional gravitationally-challenged can of soda or bottle of water, I would be less distressed.  But I have also noticed that my ability to successfully – and confidently – maneuver an automobile has similarly been called into question.  Granted, my current car is a three-row SUV (I am trying to compensate for my carbon footprint in other ways) so there is more to fit into a parking spot than there once was.  But even in the wide-open, straight-on parking spots of suburbia I will drive out of my way to avoid having to park in a slot between two other parked cars, particularly if either of them look in the least bit expensive.  This is after growing up driving everywhere in all sorts of cars and, beyond that, operating an automobile in New York City for a decade, where the only types of parking were parallel or illegal (or, as was often the case, a combination of the two).  But now, even with rear-view cameras (which I don’t believe in) and curb-warning detectors, I would not dream of trying such parking contortionism.  I have been tempted to just go home rather than try to park in front of a restaurant or other establishment.  I would then pick up Wendy’s or similar on the way back, but those drive-through lanes are similarly suspiciously narrow.  And driving at night?  Forget about it.

Muscle memory? More like muscle amnesia

I mention this only partially to complain.  The other reason is that I suspect that this has something to do with my chemo, which of course really is the fault of my cancer.  I cannot concentrate nor focus on small matters with any consistency any longer.  Plus, I have become quite forgetful, often not remembering what I just said.  Sometimes I don’t even remember what I just said.  I cannot substantiate this, but I feel fairly confident that this is all due to the interference in my previously working (or, at least, serviceable) brain functions.  I am unable to gauge matters with precision or even, sometimes, remember that I should be doing so.  Hearkening back again to my “athletic” days, I remember the coaches often coaxing us into mind-numbing repetition with the promise of muscle memory.  I don’t know if that was in fact a real thing, but I definitely now am suffering from muscle amnesia – I have no idea what I just did and I certainly cannot repeat it.

My chemobrain is not normal aging

Some of my friends and family, in an attempt to be supportive – there’s a lot of such attempts for people with cancer – suggest that this is just a natural stage of aging.  To this I have two replies:  First, I do not see this happening to my peers.  I do not know any other Gen Xers who are now fearful of the Target parking lot (except, perhaps, in the days leading up to Christmas).  It is just too much of a coincidence that this all started in the months following chemotherapy.  Plus, for some unknown reason, people never like to admit that cancer or its treatment can cause problems.  They always want to brush it under the rug or just dismiss its manifestations altogether.  Second, and just as important, such an explanation does not make me feel any better.  Look, I already have cancer and I know I am aging.  I don’t really need a reminder of either.  I do, however, need a reminder of where I parked the car most days.