The cat got stuck in my recliner.
It took all my strength to get off
without crushing him, so I bought
a new chair that couldn’t trap him,
could massage me ― frequently.

Then a pain went down my leg.
I stopped massaging, took pills
and walked sparingly with a cane
while the bulging discs in my spine
relaxed and stopped pinching nerves.

In a few months the pain subsided,
but my arthritic joints have stiffened,
and I am frequently out of breath.
Instead of helping me walk,
the cane now keeps me from falling.

Test after test finds my heart and lungs
function at the low edge of normal.
The only firm diagnosis is sleep apnea.
That doesn’t cause shortness of breath,
but treating it might eventually help.

So I sleep in a Darth Vader mask hooked
to a pump. I feel strange, look weird,
but awake refreshed. My stamina
may be improving. When dressing,
I don’t rest as long between socks.

Medical science probably won’t
find the cause of my problem ― beyond
being overweight, out of shape, and old.
Rather than accept those lame excuses,
I have settled for blaming the cat.

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