Everyone has a handicap—mine’s just obvious

I used to be depressed when I went to a certain assisted living facility in town. Everywhere I turned, people wandered the lobby and halls on walkers or oxygen. Not for me, I thought smugly. Now I’m on a walker.

Acquaintances who don’t know my story try to encourage me that I’ll eventually walk unassisted. “Baby steps,” said one friend recently. I’ve gotten so I bring the truth right up front: my surgeon says the walker is my friend for the rest of my life. My balance is not good, and he’d rather have me protected than risk another fall that might do irreparable damage. He tells me I don’t have to explain that my surgery was way different than an ordinary hip replacement, so I’ll spare you that tale. Just take my word for it, please.

Yes, it’s a nuisance. I can’t jump up from my desk and run to get something from the kitchen. At parties, I can’t mingle and meet. I’m relegated to a seat where I hope people will come to greet me. It leads to some wallflower moments. There are places that I cannot go because they are inaccessible, and some public bathrooms are a real problem with tiny stalls. If I get me and the walker in, then I can’t close the door.

I so far have not been allowed to drive, though I think that’s just around the corner. I did prove that I can go from house to car, stash the walker in the back seat, and get into the car. To prove to my kids that this is all okay, I’ll have to check in with the rehabilitative driving program at Baylor. But driving should free me of my dependence on others to some extent.

I don’t think I’m being over-sensitive when I say I notice a change in some people’s attitudes toward me. I have become the old lady who can’t get around much, who is content in her cottage. But I am blessed with friends and family who see me differently and, with the help of others, I have a fairly active social life. As a friend said to me the other night at a party when I said my piece about being on the walker forever, “At least you’re here.” I agree. It’s not the end of the world.

I can still keep y cottage fairly neat, dress myself, work at my desk, and cook—all big parts of my life. It’s not as though I retired to a recliner to watch TV all the livelong day.

Before this happened to me, I did not have good balance. Never. In my whole life. Steep stairs, for instance, made me nervous—now people kindly help me up and down them. Open spaces made me uncomfortable—now I have a cage around me, so I know I won’t lose my balance. In short, I don’t have to stretch myself to do things that bothered me before, though I do try to stretch just on general principles.

I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a wimp, because I try never to trade on being “handicapped” and yet in some ways life is easier. I do try to be as independent as possible, but still….not sure where to go with this, so I’ll quit.

Just please don’t pity me. And don’t treat me differently. And don’t call me old. Thanks.

Taking a break

I don’t have a difficult schedule, but I can keep myself busy all morning at my computer with emails, business details, Facebook (time suck), phone calls and the like. It’s all business, I tell myself, and some days I think I should just quit writing new material and focus on marketing the ten mysteries in print plus a lot of reprints—and selling the now-orphaned historical novel about Chicago in the Golden Age. In the afternoons, I nap, Jacob arrives, we do homework, etc. After supper I try to work but again, I can again easily distract myself with small chores. So I avoid writing. But I have that half-finished novel that I keep going back to sporadically, never much satisfied with the results.

There is also too much else going on in my life—workmen in and out all day. Most of them are a blessing and a joy, including the contractor who checks to make sure I get my morning tea and sometimes carries my lunch for me and the tile men who are the most polite and cheerful people—and are doing a beautiful job.

Then there’s an underlying worry about mobility—my left hip hurts, my legs are unsteady especially in the morning or if I don’t eat breakfast they get shaky about eleven. I am worried about going into grocery stores and such alone, though I had a pleasant dinner out with a friend last night and did beautifully walking on my own. Another doctor’s appointment next week for another test and I guess we’ll see what goes from there. But it’s a constant concern, even if it’s not always on the surface. I have to relearn my self-confidence—I’ve done it before and can do it again—but I think it gets harder as you age.

So I’ve decided I need a break from routine, a change of environment, and yes, probably even a change of faces (nobody is to take this personally). This weekend I will be with Megan, my older daughter, and her family, while my temporary tenant moves into the house to take care of Sophie and the house.

Yes, I will take my computer, but I will put most thoughts of work aside. I’ve loaded the iPad with books I’ve been meaning to read, and Megan says they have no plans—we’ll just hang around the house. They have salmon from a recent Alaska trip and have promised me some. Son-in-law Brandon has already posted on Facebook a picture of the box wine I drink, with the caption, “Preparations have been made.” I’m going to rest, relax, try not to worry, and enjoy the company of a branch of the family I don’t see nearly often enough.

So don’t look for me on Judy’s Stew. See you Monday night when I report in.

Sometimes I'm up, sometimes I'm down

I once read that there's a certain age where each of us remain in our minds. Mine is my early thirties--I had young babies and a happy marriage, or so I thought. Lately I've been coming to grips with the fact that no, I'm not thirty-three--I am about to turn seventy-seven. And at my back I do hear time's winged chariot. Not drawing too near I hope.
I think this awareness of my own mortality began with my fall in the driveway, a doctor's stern warning that I needed physical therapy lest I fall and severely injure myself. He was right and meant well, but his words planted fear in me (not hard to do) and I became even more uncertain about my walking.
His advice to get physical therapy, however, was right on the money. Ignoring his recommendation, I found a facility that specializes in teaching the elderly to avoid falls. I've lost track of how many sessions I have had, but I can certainly tell a difference--and so can the therapist who pointed out that he can tell I'm stronger because I do the exercises more slowly. When you have strength, he said, and are in control, you can do them more slowly. For weeks, he's been saying to me, "Slow down." And today I did.
Today was a good day. I woke up rested, feeling confident, and my success at the therapy session only confirmed my good feeling. Lunch with an old and valued friend, and I mentioned that I was walking better. As we left the restaurant he was behind me and said, "You are sailing right along." It was a day of errands, PT, lunch, nap, pick up Jacob, do odds and ends--and not one lick of work on the manuscript I'm checking edits on. Dinner at the Old Neighborhood Grill with neighbors was a happy occasion tonight, and even Jacob was mostly engaged and amused.
I wish all days could be like that, and maybe that's what I'm moving toward. But I do have down days when I feel shaky, uncertain, unhappy. I'm always looking for things to blame them on--falling barometric pressure, a chore or an errand I don't want to do, an extra glass of wine the night before. Maybe it's just the way the pendulum--or at least my pendulum--swings.
As I said in an earlier blog, my oldest son's statement that I may have ten good years left startled me. It could have given me a lot of down days, but I have decided to concentrate on up days--if only for ten years, so be it. Besides, I have so much work on my desk, it may take me ten years to get it all done.
So here's me--Pollyanna once again. Looking forward to the next ten years and not thinking beyond. (Oh don't worry, plans for my future are well in hand with my kids--we're not ignoring the future; I'm just not going to dwell on it.)

A light bulb goes on in my head

An absolutely gorgeous day--sunny, just the right temperature, little wind. I spent most of it inside but went out to the deck tonight with Sophie,, a glass of wine, and a good book (Sarah Gruen's At the Edge of the Water). My house is surrounded by old, tall trees--yes a worry, especially during storms--but so wonderful to sit and contemplate. When Sophie lay still by me, I thought about how lucky I am--but then she got anxious for her evening treat.
A day spent at home alone is a good time for introspection, and this afternoon a light bulb came on in my head--well, rather two. As some of you know, I've been having what I call a rough patch with my two longtime friends, anxiety and balance. It dawned on me tonight that I see those increasing difficulties as signs of aging--and I'm not read to age yet. I guess I always hear time's winged chariot at my back...but I'm not ready to acknowledge it. And hiding at home, fearing to go out, is a great way to welcome aging. The physical therapist talks about challenge, and I'm going to challenge myself more. In spite of all my fears, I've always come out smelling like a rose. I saw a picture of a woman in her nineties doing yoga--well I may not do that, but I don't have to give in to age even though I'm on the downward side of my seventies.
The other light bulb had to do with the fact that I've now mapped out my literary life for the next year at least--Desperate for Death should come out this week, I've set the wheels rolling to self-publish my Chicago historical in the fall, so that gives me two books for the year--a reasonable number to keep my name in front of my small buy loyal following.
And Murder at the Mansion waits for me to edit. I've not been in a hurry to get back to it, because I don't want it out before late winter/early spring 2016. But maybe I'll change that, might even look for a new publisher instead of self-publishing. And there's always the sequel to The Perfect Coed to finish. I've been acting like I'm at loose ends--which doesn't sit well with me--and I'm going to get over that and fill my desk with projects. Maybe I should try short stories again.
Will these two light bulbs bring instant change? I doubt it. I think it's a long road, but I'm on my way. One thing physical therapy has taught me that helps with the aging thing--I didn't realize I was shuffling like an old lady, and now I'm very conscious of bending my knees and lifting my feet well off the floor. It's those little changes.
Now, back to that book.

Not so good

Me: I'm going to cook dinner now.
Jacob: Thank God!
Me: Don't take the Lord's name in vain.
Jacob: I wasn't. I was literally thanking him because I'm starving. That's what  you say, "Thank you God." What is wrong with you people?
Poor boy! Surrounded by people who don't understand him...or maybe he doesn't understand them!
Some days are good, some not so good. Today was a not-so-good day. I had a doctor's appointment this morning--the doctor's office is on the sixth floor, and I have a real phobia about self-service elevators. So Betty goes with me--poor patient Betty. I also don't like the parking garage for reasons I can't quite pin down, but I held on to Betty all the way from the car to the elevator. With my new, improved walking, I should have let go and done it on my own--and now I'm mad at myself. Didn't do any better leaving the building either.
The appointment was at Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine in the department of manipulative medicine--nothing to be nervous about and I wasn't: as evidence, I offer blood pressure of 122/74--can't get much better than that. The resident who saw me before the doctor came in said, "I think you're doing much better than you think you are." I did carry that around with me until Betty said, "He was using positive psychology" on you, and I deflated.
We had a good lunch at Lucille's where they're having shrimp festival. I'm allergic to shrimp but Betty loves them, so I thought that was a good way to repay her for taking me to the doctor. What did she order? Shrimp soup--looked sort of like gumbo but had lots of green peppers in it (another thing I can't/won't eat--and I'm not a fussy eater). All those wonderful shrimp dishes and she orders soup! I had lobster bites (not allergic to lobster or crab--go figure) and enjoyed them.
Then, almost too quickly, it was Jacob time, and we got into our usual argument--he argues, I listen--about who gets to use the computer. Sorry, kid, it's my computer, my work, my life. No! I let him use it for Think Through Math while I fixed his snack and did a couple other things, and then after he calmed down we had a strict but calm "Come to Jesus" talk about the computer. (What did I just say about not taking the name of the Lord in vain?) Scrambled eggs and bacon for supper made us both happy.
But tomorrow I have to make up for my reluctance to take risks today. It will be a busy day--grocery, lunch and dinner plans. No Jacob as he's going home with his other grandparents--the "good" ones who will take him to his baseball games.
I guess this balance/self confidence business is two steps forward, one step backward--so today was one step backward and tomorrow will be two steps forward.