Good Health and Spirits

I wrote a draft of this post last winter when I was having my shoulder remodeled, but it applies again as now I go shopping for a new left hip. I'd rather have a new car, but I've gotten addicted to walking on two legs and want to keep on doing it. I bought a right hip four years ago, and it's running perfectly, so I thought I'd get another one to match.

Every new specialist's office is another chance to reveal your medical history, and it's turned into a different game for me in the last few years. The form starts you off with a soft question:

Do you characterize your health as __excellent __good __ fair __poor ?

Good, of course. Can't you tell? Maybe not totally excellent, but certainly good. I haven't had the flu or a bad cold for years.

Then the questions get specific: When were you hospitalized, when did you have surgery, which of the following dread diseases and /or symptoms have you had? Oh, just shut up already! I was fine until you started to pry and nag, and now you make me look as though I were barely alive. I'm still me and not some kind of invalid on all sorts of medication with a card in my wallet. Well, maybe I take some pills and it's easier to keep them organized in a plastic box with SMTWFS on the top, and maybe I wrote down a list of meds to carry with me so I could answer nosy questions from doctors and nurses ... rats, do you suppose I'm really old and infirm?

Nope. That's the old lady I catch glaring at me from the store window's reflection when I look up without thinking. She's a mess, her face all lined and grumpy. Sometimes she sneaks into the bathroom mirror, too, but I can usually chase her away by holding my head just right and opening my eyes wide. (Or by leaving the light off and not putting on my glasses.)

The woman I feel like is the woman my mother told me about when she was nearly seventy. "I just want you to remember that inside this old woman is an eighteen-year-old!" I think that inside I'm more like thirty, and my spirit doesn't yet have the varicose veins and droopy eyelids that show on the outside. My spirit is smooth-skinned and quick-footed, and can run and dance and wear short skirts and drink a glass of wine without a nap afterward.

But the spirit is living in a body that's ready to go to sleep (there was that glass of wine with supper). So good night.

(P.S. This got published twice -- not really, but when I published the draft that had been sitting around, it came in with last February's date and disappeared instantly into the archive. Writing and learning.)

Ready for Spring

In November and early December before the snows begin, all that was green has turned brown and black. Leaves are gone or shriveled on the stems of plants, and everything has died. Or has it? When I look again at the weeds along the path there are seeds everywhere, waiting to be knocked off the plants and onto the ground to do their miracle when the light and warmth return. In this dark time I wish the same miracle for all of us. Maybe we'll even be able to do it without being knocked around too much. Bless us every one!

The upside of being old and unemployed

Oh, right. That's also called Retirement, though it started out as Laid Off.

No posts for all these months because I couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't whiny. Illness and injury are states shared by everyone and especially as they get old, but no one really wants to hear about anyone else's. So you won't hear about mine, or at least not too much, I hope. But illness and injury do take up a lot of time and attention, and writing a really boring blog about getting up and doing what you have to and going back to bed is my idea of intensifying the torture. Enough to say that right now everybody is on the mend and looking pretty good.

So today a Nor'Easter is screaming around the house, and it's time to take off for my knitting group. A couple of hours ago I was gazing glumly at a mental picture of myself at the bus stop, umbrella inside out and hood blown off while branches flew from trees and onto my head.

But wait! I don't have to go to knitting group! There's more! I don't lose a day's pay for not showing up, and the others in the group won't even be mad at me! That's because I don't get a paycheck that requires that I stand at the bus stop getting soaked by rain and passing traffic, and dodging flying branches.

That leaves me in the house doing what absolutely has to be done and marking time until going back to bed. Hmm, sounds familiar. But the house is warm and dry, my Christmas knitting projects are yelling at me from their bags, and soup is bubbling on the stove. Today's special is leek and potato, with a tiny pot of chicken and rice soup on the side for the one who has a stomach bug. (OK, so we're not all in perfect health ...) The dog and cat are practicing their Power Naps. They may be why I always want to lie down. They look so happy.

Aforementioned knitting projects include a punk winter hat with earflaps and a black and pink mohawk on top, requested by a daring and beautiful sister in law, thrummed mittens (a design from the Maritime Provinces, lined with fleece "thrums") for a sister who walks her dog in Wisconsin winters, a Fibonacci Rainbow scarf for a brother who requested "something bright"(Bright it definitely is, but I am the eldest sibling, and dedicated to teasing the younger ones. Who knew the impulse would last all my life?) Last, a couple of hats, whose design hasn't been determined yet, for nieces.

In sum, today being old and idle ain't so bad.

getting to be a long winter

meditations and helpful hints for life after shoulder surgery

no, i'm not trying to be cute; i can only use my left hand so the shift key gets little use. surgery to repair and remodel my right shoulder was at the end of january. 3 weeks tomorrow, and i still can't lie down to sleep.

the lessons so far? the list is in no particular order and is a work in progress:

1. don't bother with a bra. putting it on is a marathon and wearing it hurts your shoulder. my lack of what used to be called a foundation garment recalls the 60's, except now the look is bigger and much, much lower -- really more like my memories of my own grandmother as far back as i can remember, whose fronts were very large and low, much more impressive than mine. once i saw her by accident right after her bath, picking each one up to pat talcum powder underneath. to a flat-chested little girl that was a strange and funny sight. i'm here to tell you now that when it's yourself it's still strange and funny, but the laugh is rueful.

1a. Avoid thin shirts and mirrors, and wear a coat when leaving the house. (good thing it's cold, i guess. except if it weren't winter and cold i wouldn't have had to clean my windshield in early december and there wouldn't have been black ice in the driveway for me to put my foot on when i reached across the car ... which is why i'm sitting here typing with one hand and whining.)

2. get one of those u-shaped travel pillows. i'd have a broken neck, too, if not for that. you can't ever get very good sleep sitting up, but with the pillow you can doze without your head flopping over and waking you up.

3. get shirts that open down the front . the arm doesn't go anywhere for the first few weeks, just hugs the ribcage and whimpers, or yells if you try to move it. when it yells, you yell. it gets noisy, and you still don't have your shirt on. being a stubborn sort, i know what i'm talking about.

4. when you get really sick of everything and everyone, try to warn long-suffering and helpful near-and-dear that you're about to turn on them. then get a closed door between you and everyone else so you can sulk or cry or swear or chew on furniture in private. otherwise your helpers may run screaming or tell you what you already know about your ingratitude. they'll be entitled, and believe me, you will need them again very soon.

5. for every pain pill drink a good-sized glass of prune juice. don't argue, don't ask how i learned. just do it. besides the obvious digestive benefit, this method makes you less likely to toy with addiction to painkillers. if you're fond of prune juice, however, you're on your own.

more later. this kind of typing is hard.