Old people talk about ailments a lot. Bad backs, knees, and poor flow are the main topics of conversation around lunch tables and prayer meetings everywhere. If it weren’t for ailments, some weeks it seems lifelong friends would have nothing to talk about and the church prayer list would be empty.

I remember something my Manny said all the time when I was young. She lived with us from the time I was born up into my high school years. I don’t remember any other words of hers but these. As she shuffled through the house, or right in the middle of Gilligan’s Island, she would blow into a Kleenex and say, “Oh my nose itches.” These words will undoubtedly stay with me for the rest of my years.

It’s just a fact of life that as we get older, our bodies begin to transition. Once I was a four-speed SS 396 with posi-traction. Now I’m a rusted-out Buick that coughs when it cranks and sports a set of mismatched hubcaps. Old guys don’t care what color socks they wear.

My particular ailment, in case you’re interested, is my elbow. And, of course, it has to be my right elbow. I am right-handed. I write from the right side. I used to hit from the right side of the plate. More accurately, I used to swing a bat from the right side of the plate. I hold a fork with my right hand.

My right arm takes the lead, and the body follows. As long as I’m functioning from the right side, the world feels normal. Life is in balance. Everything makes sense.

For the last four or five weeks, I have not had full function of my right arm because of this darn elbow thing. I am like a duck with one leg.

Q: “How does a duck with one leg swim?”

A: “In circles.”

Exactly. It’s hard to believe that one little malfunction could have such an impact. I honestly think I’d rather have a major headache with a 100° fever, and just be totally non-functional for a week. At least I would know it’s okay to lie there, knowing that in 4-5 days it would all pass, and I could get back to life.

It’s called tendonitis. Once you get it, it’s a real pain.

Mine started about 7 or 8 years ago. You got a minute? I was helping my son work on his crappy Ford truck. 1978, half-ton, short cab, rusty blue. This thing had more ailments than a nursing home. I won’t bother to list them all, but the clutch needed prayer, the fuel gauge needed resuscitation, and the emergency brake wouldn’t hold a feather parked on a hill.

There we both were lying on our backs under his truck attempting to put in a new emergency brake cable and hardware. The bolts were rusty. I’m bleeding from frayed wire strands. I’m working wrenches with my right arm in positions that are unnatural for the human body.

The next morning, I could tell my arm was sore. Nothing unusual about that when you’re 60. When I went to pick up my coffee cup, I was pretty sure that someone had poked a hot needle in my right elbow. I may have said something off-color as the pain surged through my entire arm.

Being completely ignorant of tendonitis, I went to see my doctor. I’m pretty sure I’ve ruptured or torn something in my arm that might require surgery. I could be crippled for life.

“I’ve hurt my arm, Doc. I can barely move it, and I sure as heck can’t pick up anything with it.”

I like my Doc. Been going to him for nearly 30 years. He’s a no-nonsense, no-frills kind of doctor. We have aged together, and I trust him. That’s important.

So, when he said, “Hold your arm out for me,” I didn’t hesitate to comply.

He held my right forearm in his left hand and pushed down with his thumb on top of my arm just below the top knot on my elbow. He pressed hard.

“Does it hurt right there?”

I’ve been leery of him ever since that day.

After he coaxed me down off the ceiling and promised not to touch me again, he explained to me what tendonitis is all about. Inflammation. Overuse. Working in a strained position.

“Your tendons are not as flexible as they used to be,” he said. “I would tell you not to use your right arm for a while, but I know that’s not going to happen. If you’ll take care of it, stop doing whatever you’re doing when it starts to hurt, after about a year you’ll get over it.”

He was right. It took a long time for me not to think about my elbow hurting. Twelve months to return to normal use of my arm without worrying about the pain.

Since that year, this is my third episode. I guess once you injure a body part, the easier it is to repeat the offense.

A few weeks ago, I was hammering when I felt the twang in my right elbow. I knew exactly what was going on. But I was helping a friend and was determined to see it through. No way I was stopping until the job was finished.

If you know, you know. I suck at scooping hard frozen ice cream with my left hand. I reach across my body with my left arm to pick up my coffee cup, which always sits on the right side when I’m at the couch on my back porch. I take anti-inflammation pills every day in addition to the normal regimen.

Having a right arm that does not function well makes me appreciate the simple things that I often take for granted. I refuse to brush my teeth with my left hand. I tried but got more toothpaste up my nose and on my face than on my teeth. It’s like my left arm doesn’t even know where my mouth is located.

I use a lot of Ziploc bags around my kitchen. It’s so pitiful. Opening a Ziploc with my left hand and my teeth is not natural.

I turn doorknobs with my left hand. I push the seat belt over with my left hand, but I have to use my right to make it click. If I carry something that weighs more than a sausage biscuit and I need to get through the door to leave the house, I cradle the weight in my right arm, elbow tight to my ribs, so I can use my left hand to fumble with the door.

Everything is out of kilter. Zippers. Buttons. Handshakes. Mercy, the handshakes hurt to the core. Lifting a glass of water. You should see me comb my hair with my left hand. Forget opening a new jar of pickled peaches.

I don’t see myself switching over to the left side. I’m no lefty. So, if you see me with a coffee cup in my left hand and stains on my shirt, I have one favor to ask.

Please open the door for me.