Henry Fuseli: Thetis Mourning the Body of Achilles (1780)

"Not one of us ever was whole or normal …"

We each possess some weakness, though it often seems like it possesses us. Either way, it comes to dominate some days, crowding out intendeds for its senseless imperative. In my time, I've suffered through various afflictions, not one of them worth mentioning in their absence. The details couldn't matter. I presently feel my right shoulder more than anyone should ever feel their right shoulder's presence. This weakness goes back to last Spring when I was over-enthusiastically prepping the back deck for painting. After a couple of days of vigorous sanding I was feeling done in. I diagnosed the condition as deltoid bursitis, but it could have been anything, for a stubbed toe by any other name, to paraphrase Shakespeare, would feel the same. I hired our painter to finish that job while setting out to cure that latest affliction. I was better two months later.

I am confident I do not know what I might have done to encourage this condition to occur. My doctor, as he injected something into that shoulder, supposed the condition would probably not return, but it's back. I've been living between ibuprofens, wounding myself all over again with my usual activities of daily living. My shoulder has become my constant companion, reminding me whenever I attempt to use it. I have not, of course, stopped using it. I've still been engaging in projects and lingering beneath the shower, hoping to mollify the feeling. I finally made an appointment with my doctor for another one of those magical injections. My appointment's still two weeks out.

In the meantime, I carry this focus of attention. It's my constant companion. It wakes me each morning and inhibits my sleeping every evening. In between, it's never absent, as if constantly at least mumbling into my inner ear. It elbows its way into everything, taking up some of my presence. It renders writing and reading difficult because it distracts me from the trance necessary to properly engage. It might be my full-time job, carrying this ache, Shouldering into and through everything. Some days, I just want to lay on the sidelines nursing my wound. I count the moments remaining before my next ibuprofen.

As a child, Achilles was dipped into some invulnerability vat. His mother was promised that the dipping would render her son impervious to harm, except the dipper held onto his heel when dipping him, leaving that one innocuous part vulnerable. Sure enough, in battle, an arrow managed to find its way into precisely that spot, and the wound proved mortal. Our vanity mostly seems to protect us. Mine has undoubtedly protected me through most of my existence so far. Maybe my dipper held onto my shoulder. Wherever my vulnerability lies—for all I know, it might well be emotional—it holds the cards. One day, seemingly out of the blue, something happens to you. You probably won't even recall doing whatever wounded you. Then you're taken down a peg and might never recover. We speak of returning to the way it was, but something's different then. Even when the wound's not fatal, it shifts something that seems irreparable.

I continue Shouldering through, just like you and everyone else here. This part of the human condition does not seem all that admirable. Sure, one might rise to the challenge and still achieve whatever they desire through dedication, courage, and considerable suffering, but none of that's preferable. We'd all prefer to continue doing as if nothing were inhibiting anything. We realize that we once inhabited Heaven on Earth before moving into relative purgatory. It's unseemly to dwell on such infirmities, for we all experience them. Not one of us ever was whole or normal, and we've each grown accustomed to Shouldering our way through whatever we're doing, mumbling to ourselves every inch of the way.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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