Temptations of the reclusive life

 

Tonight, there is a “meet-and-greet” for Jared Sloane, the city council candidate from my district in Fort Worth who I have chosen to vote for and support. Some may remember reading about his visit to me last week. After great debate with myself, I am not going to the event. Christian asked last night if he’s taking me, and I said, “No, you’re representing me.”

My inner debate was about getting out and resuming my life vs. comfort. The reception is on a front porch in my neighborhood; one of the hosts assured me it was two steps up to the porch or up the slanted driveway. When I thought about it, I realized that maneuvering my walker up even two steps would be awkward and, briefly, attention getting. I could imagine conversation stopping while Christian and I labored to get me up those steps. Then on a porch, people would undoubtedly be standing, visiting, as they do at a cocktail party. I can’t stand that long, so I’d sit in my walker and, as a friend said, I could talk to everyone’s navel. It all sounded awkward.

But there is of course a larger issue. I am too comfortable, too content at home. I lecture myself—and then I wonder if I’m okay with it, why is It wrong to want to stay home? I am fortunate that my isolation is broken not only by family but by guests. I keep busy writing, reading, and cooking. Oh yes, I’d like to eat in restaurants, but I’m still cautious about that, preferring patio seating, not ready for a restaurant with a hundred per cent occupancy. And I guess I’ll get back to in-person church, but it’s so easy to go to church at home in comfortable clothes. But otherwise, the wider world doesn’t call to me, and I can’t figure out if it’s my need for mobility assistance or an increasing tendency to be a recluse.

The very word “recluse” has a negative connotation for me, with echoes of Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. When I think of recluses, I think of women (why not men?) who withdraw from the world and become embittered and lonely—and I don’t think that’s who I am. I have a lively (some would say too lively) interest in the world, especially politics. I enjoy all my online connections—well, most of them—and, with a nod to all who slam Facebook, checking it every morning is one of the ways I start my day.

I do think my mobility problems complicate the issue. I finished a round of physical therapy today, and the therapist complimented me on my progress. The problem is not mechanical—my new hip works well, my legs are strong enough for a woman my age. No, it’s atrial fibrillation—my heart doesn’t get enough oxygen to my muscles, and I get winded easily. Four weeks ago, walking sixty feet did me in. Today I can walk about a hundred—but that’s not even a city block. And I must go slow and take such deep breaths I sound like the puffing of the little engine that could. It’s no wonder sitting at my desk is easier. And going places is a lot of work.

Now that quarantine restrictions are breaking down, another aspect of my life is changing. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are all resuming the busy social lives they had before Covid confined us to quarters. I have been spoiled having them here for dinner almost every night, but I sense that changing. Many nights when they are gone, I invite a friend to visit, sometimes for happy hour, sometimes for supper. In fact, this week my calendar is full every night (including a Zoom lecture I want to hear—Zoom has been a blessing during quarantine).

I am grateful that I am, as I advised a friend, walking on the sunny side of the street. Instead of complaining about being desperate to get out, as some of my friends did for months, I’m grateful for the comfort of my cottage and the good things about my life. But my mental picture of Miss Havisham still nags at the back of my mind.

The joy of a good doctor’s report

Me, almost two years ago, when I got to go home from rehab

Two years ago this month I had massive hip surgery—it wasn’t just that my hip needs to be replaced. The hip had deteriorated to the point there really was no joint left. Dr. Jeffrey McGowen had to invent the surgery he did, so that I now have lots of metal parts in a join that looks like no other.

Hospitals don’t let you lollygag around these days. I’ve known hip surgery patients who went home the next day. I stayed five days and then, over my weepy loud protests, went to a care facility where I spent ten endless days feeling sorry for myself. But the therapist there was wonderful, and by the time I left I was using a walker—baby steps at first but a little better each day. My joy at being home didn’t last long—I had around the clock nurses and physical therapy in my cottage three times a week for two months. I guess I always knew recovery would be an ordeal—I just didn’t realize how much of an ordeal.

Round the clock care was an experience in itself—we had such a wild variety of women through my door to care for me. Some were wonderful; some not so much so. As my oldest daughter said of one, “Something’s wrong when you know more about the caregiver’s symptoms than the patient’s.” Another complained that our food was bland and went foraging in the fridge to see how she could liven it up. One young woman seemed to have a magic touch—she was gentle and encouraging, and in the doctor’s office, she knew exactly how to get me to stand when the nurses couldn’t. Personal troubles kept her from her schedule to often that we finally gave up on her. Son Jamie confessed recently that some of my caretakers were so taken with my dog, he feared Sophie might be taken by one of them.

After some weeks, I could spend days alone but was coerced to having someone with me at night. Then, finally, came the night I could stay alone. The independence was a great triumph for me. A couple of months later, the physical therapist, whom I liked a lot though she was a taskmaster, stopped coming. I exercised on my own and didn’t realize how far I still had to go.

My next big milestone was driving my car. It had sat unused for two years and required a lot of work to get it in running condition again. I had to demonstrate to each of my children that I could get myself and my walker in and out of the car alone and that my driving skills had not flown away. Today I run a lot of errands by myself but have promised Jordan that I will always have someone help me in and out of the car—if nothing more than standing by to see that I don’t fall or get mugged. You’d be amazed at how helpful people are, how willing to give curbside service.

A milestone I’ve not reached and am not striving for: walking unassisted. My walker is almost a permanent attachment. Dr. McGowen says it’s much preferable to falling, which could render me permanently bedridden.

I saw Dr.McGowen today. A year ago, when he said, “See you in a year,” I rejoiced. Today, he said all the parts of my new hip are permanently in place and won’t move around, so he’ll treat me like a regular hip replacement patient and see me in five years. He said, and I quote, “I couldn’t be happier with the way things have turned out.” Me too, Doctor, me too. Dr. McGowen turned my life around. The first day he saw me in his office I was in severe pain, couldn’t walk, was over-medicated (both prescription and self-medication) and was generally losing my life or at least any quality it had.

Today, I feel better physically than I have in years, and I am probably happier than at any time in my life, except maybe when my babies were young. I am not just tolerating aging, I am enjoying it, finding new interests, new strengths. And pretty much I owe it all to Dr. McGowen.

Want to see a video about my recovery and my visits to Dr. McGowen? See it here: https://www.thpg.org/texas-hip-knee-center/pages/about-us/doctors/dr-jeffrey-mcgowen.aspx  (It’s not the most flattering picture of me, and I look a whole lot better and younger these days because that was when I was still recovering, but the video shows you what a wonderful thing Dr. McGowen did for me.)

This isn’t a testimonial. It’s a plain, public thank you, and a statement of gratitude on my part that I have my life back.

Memories, nostalgia, and self-absorption

This morning Facebook presented me with a memory from six years ago but didn’t show a picture and wouldn’t let me share it. It was a post about watching a chef roast a turkey and then, 24 hours before serving, put it in the fridge “to dry out.” What’s with that? I thought the whole point was to keep turkey meat moist. Apparently, refrigeration made the skin crisp and the meat even more moist. Could have fooled me. But the post went on to describe a successful book signing at Barnes & Noble and then dinner with Jacob. I’d fixed a version of the Scottish “bangers and mash,”—sausage and mashed potatoes—and he loved it, so I taught him to say bangers and mash. As he toddled off, close to bedtime, to watch just a few minutes of TV, he said, without my asking, “I love you, Juju.” He was five at the time.

The whole post made me think how many things have changed. The best I get from Jacob, now eleven, is a sort of mechanical, “Love you too,” when I hug him at night and tell him I love him. He sounds exactly like one of his uncles. And I no longer cook turkey, so I have no chance to try that turkey theory. My daughters do all the holiday cooking these days. Nor do I go trotting lightheartedly off to book signings, conferences and the like—missing the latter is a bitter blow, magnified by the surgeon’s suggestions I’ll never abandon the walker.

When I saw the surgeon Friday, he asked the usual questions: Was I getting out and about? Did I feel life was getting back to normal? At that point, my voice got a little shaky, I’m sure, as I told him life would never get back to what had been normal for me. These days my life is circumscribed—I’m in the cottage alone with Sophie I’d say 65% of the time; I get out some to lunch and dinner with friends, and I occasionally eat in the house with the family. I don’t have the drop-in visitors that I did when the cottage was new and a novelty, and I miss them.

I have so much to be thankful for, and so many people are in much worse straits than I am, but occasionally, I have a little pity party. And the flashback post this morning triggered one.

My pity party has disappeared quickly, not because I contemplated the people with disabling illnesses and chronic pain and financial straits, all those dire circumstances, but because I contemplated my own daughter. I had dinner in the house tonight. Christian fixed a dish that was sort of like a Mexican version of spaghetti mac—hamburger, pasta, corn, taco seasonings, and I don’t know what else, but it was so good. He put cheese on top and put it in the broiler—and left it too long. But the result was not what he feared—crisp and good, like the cheese that drips out of a grilled cheese sandwich and solidifies on the pan.

Jordan was cheerful and talkative, but clearly, she does not feel well. Her back is better, though there are still movement that hurt her. But she’s had a heavy cold now for a week, and she feels rotten, as we all do when we have a cold. I realized she has not been herself for two weeks—first the back and then the cold. And while she has not come out to chat and giggle, it’s because she feels lousy. So color me more tolerant and less self-absorbed.

This will be a good week. Let us all now give thanks for all our blessings.

Skiing—and this Business of Walking

I bought some new skis. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never skied in my life and am not likely to start at this age and in my current physical state. For one thing, I’m the opposite of naturally athletic; for another, I’m afraid of height. I cannot imagine myself at the top of a mountain slope, preparing to take off downward on a couple of pieces of wood with poles that would probably be useless in my terrified hands.

No, I bought skis for the back legs of my walker. Previously I had to move the walker ahead by lifting it slightly after a couple of steps because while the front legs rolled, the back were plain and either balked or squawked. Now it glides, even going easily from one surface to another, and enables me to walk normally, one foot after the other, without unnatural pauses, I think ultimately the skis will help me improve my walking strength.

Monday will be five months since my surgery, and I’m still not walking unassisted. I do great on my walker and can go lots of places, which has allowed me to resume a semi-normal life going to church, shopping a bit, out to lunch and dinner. About a month ago a neighbor with whom I had lunch and who had hip surgery about three months before I did, emphasized that I was making progress and full function comes at different times for different folk. She was back-pedaling from her statement that by four months post-op she had given up her walker. And I have a neighbor close by who has had two hips operated and; his wife tells me he was off the walker quickly, and I remember him offering to do a dance at supper one night. I feel slow, retarded, lazy, inadequate—you name it.

And I fear I’ll never walk again. My brother brought me a brochure yesterday about a fancy, very stable, very expensive walker he thought I should consider. When I said I hoped not to need a walker forever, he warned that I might not but I will probably never have much stamina again. I didn’t tell him, but I was crushed. In my dreams, I walk freely and confidently.

My surgeon warned against comparing myself to anyone else because he said he’d never seen a hip in the shape mine was in. (I’ll spare you the gory details.) But don’t each of us think our situation is the most dramatic, the most extreme? For me, the comparisons are inevitable. I see both him and my family doctor next month, and I’m anxious to hear what they have to say.

Meantime, grateful for every invitation, I get out as often a I can—my goal is once daily either to go out or have someone in. I do my leg and shoulder exercises almost daily, and I walk, with help, down the driveway or in the backyard. And I dream of driving my cute VW convertible, doing my own grocery shopping, and running free again.

Coming to grips with life and its realities

This is the blog I was preparing to post Sunday night when the computer went kerflooey.

What can I say? Colin worked so hard the whole 24 hours he was here—and I find I maligned him in last night’s blog when I complained about him running errands—the errands were all about things he needed to fix stuff at the cottage.

He scrubbed the bathroom grout and mopped the floor, replaced the outdoor light, helped me with some nasty chores, worked like a dog today to start my car. The battery was too far gone—jumping it didn’t get enough power to start it. Tonight my car is in my driveway, with a brand new battery. And Colin even took time to go on a bike ride with Jacob and Morgan. One of the good guys and a terrific father/uncle. Plus he brought his files up to date on my banking and other business, so now we are in sync.

When Colin went to jump-start my car, he visited with longtime family friends. He was gone so long I feared trouble and called—no, they were just talking. (My ears were burning). He came back to report the useless battery and said, “I’m going to go get a new one real quick.” I did it again—laughed and said, “You haven’t done anything real quick since you got here.” Of course he hadn’t, but he’d done a mighty work slowly and thoroughly.

I sometimes say Colin is my rock. I’m sure my other kids understand, but Jordan is my caretaker who devotes hours to my needs, hours she could easily devote to her family. And she makes me feel secure. But Colin is my rock who reassures me that my world is in order.

Decisions from the weekend: I am going to work on my strength and walking with the walker more. I am going to ask the PT to work with me on the exercises he wants me to do—I apparently don’t have the will power at this point to do them alone, and that’s okay. My goal is strength, not walking unassisted. I am beginning to realize that I may never walk unassisted—the danger of falling is too great, and another fall could be catastrophic.

I will smile sweetly at friends who urge me to walk more, work out more, go out to eat more. The workout plan is above/ as for going out more, not until I get a clean bill of health from the gastroenterologist. I am still too subject to unexplained sudden accidents. If others don’t understand, they aren’t wearing my shoes—quote my darling son.

He and Morgan left much later than usual—three-thirty at least. So I hope they got home at a decent hour so Morgan could get ready for school tomorrow.

The view from the cottage tonight is grim—graves. Christian got the Halloween spirit this afternoon, and built a graveyard in the back, just outside my window. Oh, happy day!

A big right turn in my life

I turned a big corner today. My nine-year-old grandson came in early for school, and his mom said he had something to tell me.

“I’m looking at my new house,” he said with a huge grin.

When I asked if he was pleased, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

So I guess that makes it official: I’m moving to the guest apartment, once we get it remodeled and a kitchenette added, and Jacob and his parents are moving into the main house—probably it will take us a year to get it all done, but we have great plans.

If you follow this blog, you will know I’ve had increased mobility problems, now walk with a cane all the time, and have made an arrangement with a neighbor to go with me on errands. All this has occupied a lot of my time, particularly my “worry” time. In addition, I have known this big move was coming for a while. Last Friday I woke up with the clear thought that I should move into the apartment, not Jordan and Christian who planned to use it as a master bedroom suite. All this has and will continue to keep me distracted. Probably the turmoil in my life is why I sometimes feel I should play pin the tail on the donkey to see which of several projects I complete. So far, the result has been that I done precious little except to start two new projects, about 500 words each—a long, long way from a completed book.

My children are anxious to be reassured that I don’t feel like the little old lady being shoved out to the back house—I guess we’re going to call it the cottage. In truth, I’m kind of excited about it. I mostly live in my office (which I’ll keep at least at first), the kitchen and my bedroom. The living room is mostly used for happy hour, and the dining room for small dinner parties, to which the Burtons are included. So not much will change—we will entertain together, though I have told some friends they’ll have to learn to open the electronic gate and come down the driveway to me. I expect I’ll eat supper in the main house and maybe lunch.

Today I announced I want the sheets that are on the double bunk beds out there—blue and yellow plaid and pattern, mixed. That’s going to be my color scheme. The bunk beds will come inside for Jacob, who said, “I can start bringing stuff over here.” We assured him it was a little early.

In many ways—the move, the mobility problems, the uncertainty about writing—seem signs of aging. Believe me, I’ve thought of that often. But I prefer not to see them that way. I heard the architect mention ramps, and I whirled and said, “I’m not in a wheelchair. And I intend to get better, not worse.” I think that’s how I feel about turning this corner in my life—it’s going to make a lot of things better.

A writing friend chooses a word for her life each year. I forget what 2015 was, but for 2016 she chose “fruition.” I asked if I could borrow it, because I think a lot of good things will come to fruition in the coming year.

Thanks for hanging in there with me.