Erosion

Now I've written before about Billy Connolly's perspective on the decline that comes with old age, that you spend a life gaining skills and attributes, and then a death losing them. He takes some kind of comfort in the idea that the things you've spent a lifetime learning to do slowly unwind, and that bit by bit you stop being able to do those things, until eventually you can't do anything. Game over. As an idea, it has a certain symmetry to it that I can understand is, perhaps, comforting.

What I don't like is when that erosion of certain skills and abilities comes too soon. Okay, I'm approaching a milestone birthday but I'm not old. Yet things are being taken away from me. For example, I've always been very pleased with my singing abilities - I'm quite shy, so don't sing properly in front of other people, but I've always had quite a range, plenty of vocal power on tap and, most importantly, could really control my singing voice... but not any more. In the spring of 2019, I fell ill. I went to the GP and they couldn't diagnose it exactly (they did tests, I tried medication, but all either of those did was rule out possibilities). The inconclusive conclusion was that I had some form of viral infection and just had to wait it out. Which I did. But the way this infection manifested itself was an acute cough and laryngospasm. To save you clicking, a laryngospam feels like your throat is closing up and although you can, sort of, still breathe in, you can't really breathe out. You end up gulping for air, basically unable to breathe. For me, this would happen late at night (which was bad) or whilst asleep (which was a hell of a lot worse - imagine waking at 2am, tired, dopey, gasping for air...) It would sometimes happen during the evening too - I remember being at a Specials gig with The Man of Cheese and almost going over because I couldn't breathe (TMOC held me up - thanks mate). And I spent nearly four weeks sleeping sitting upright in a wing-back armchair, in the hope that that would help, such was my fear of being unable to breathe in the middle of the night. I can laugh about it now but at the time it was ... well, maybe not terrible, plenty of people have far worse things to contend with. But it wasn't very nice.

Worse, though, is the long term effect. The viral infection, if that's what it was, was overcome. I stopped having laryngospasms. But I have a permanent reminder, for the whole episode left me with a rough patch in my throat, and that has robbed me of my ability to sing properly. Sure, I can still sing. But not properly, not like I could. I don't have the same range. I dont have anything like the same power. And I don't have the fine control any more either. And it makes me terribly sad. I loved singing, in part at least because it was something I could do really well. I'm barely average now, and when I sing it always disappoints me. I am a disappointment to myself. The talent has gone.

It's not the only talent either. When I was young, I could really whistle, again with power, range and control. Then, about a month shy of my 21st birthday, I was assaulted; my jaw was broken, and I had an orbital fracture of my cheekbone too. Those injuries healed, in time, but it permanently altered the shape of my face, specifically the shape of my mouth. Family and friends told me I had gone back to normal, but I knew the truth - I could see it in the mirror. More than that, I could hear the difference too, because I just couldn't whistle the same: I still had the power, but my range was truncated, and the control at the extremities of that range, well, that was decimated too.

I don't mind getting old. I don't mind losing the skills and abilities that Billy talks about as he nears his end. But I'm not happy about having those skills taken from me prematurely, however minor, personal or private they might be. In fact, I feel like I'm being eroded, and I'm downright sad about it.

I used to whistle this so well...