The catch-all term for an aging body, “degenerative disc disease,” captures the essence of my life. I’m 53–over that proverbial hill–entering menopause (see disorganized), where I lose my collagen-saturated skin, my resilience to injury, my quick wit, my 8-hour sleeps, my sex appeal.

Tripartite diagnoses:

• disorganized menses
• lateral epicondylitis
• degenerative disc disease

So I meet my annual deductible in attempts to “treat” these conditions. In vain. The cycle refuses to regulate, the elbow resists the third injection, and the back remains stubbornly sore. When to fight? When to resign?

I have three diagnoses, three jobs. I’m inclined toward threes. They serve such a lovely narrative function. But they can feel redundant. And predictable. I’m ready to move toward two. Two diagnoses, two jobs. Fix one, eliminate one: operate on the elbow, opt out of a position. Then I’ll persist with the other two. Eventually my menses will cease and my back pain will resolve (or it won’t and then I’ll find another option). In two months the two remaining work positions will be resolved.

Lop them off: elbow and job.