Just last week I considered posting this song and with Chris Cornell’s death it’s running on a loop in my head. By the time Soundgarden released it I had moved beyond the band but there was no way to avoid the alt-rock megahits in the mid-90s. I barely connect it to the days in high school spent lounging on couches listening to my dudes debate the relative merits and sell-out-edness of their grunge heroes.
Last week, though. This past November I was finally diagnosed with an inherited connective tissue disorder that has been actively slaying me for a few years now. As the high of having an explanation–and more targeted treatment opportunities–wears off, I find myself staring into the abyss of the coming half a life. Full-time symptom management that only barely rises above thumbs in the holes of dykes and the looming specter of the potential for crippling musculoskeletal dysfunction. Fell on black days indeed.
Of course, it could not be that bad; it’s not that bad now. Some people I know with this condition are better off than I am; several are much worse. Almost everyone faces such a moment in life, the struggle for acceptance and this thrashing about in the brush while we wait to see where we can make a new path. A path to where, a path to what–the zen masters tell us to let that all go and just live.
Still. How would I know that this could be my fate.