“Ouch!”
“Ouch ouch!”
“Ouch ouch ouch!”
It’s a new dance step. Sort of like the cha cha cha with added limp, limp, limp. Then there’s the dip. It lends a certain
je ne sais quoi to the whole performance. It is important not to slip when you dip, hence your partner must be both strong and agile.
I’ve designed a cane into the costume. I might be onto something here.
My usual disciplined demeanor has degenerated into a ritual of nervous micro managing -- tidying drawers, culling my closet, placing a doily under my teacup. My playful and spontaneous nature has corrupted into an impulsive energy that leaps octaves in a single bound. I’m happy, I’m sad. Wildly creative, then paralyzed. It’s sounds disgusting, doesn’t it? The inevitable self criticism follows.
Inevitable. That is the word the surgeon used when he first viewed my hip X-ray.
“A complete hip replacement is inevitable,” he said. He imparted this bombshell with the matter of fact tone of voice one would use when saying, “The laundry is done, They called to say your truck is ready, I’m going to grill the tofu,” not the same delivery one would expect when announcing, “The dog is on fire, Your mother has always hated you, Oh and by the way, I’m going to cut you open and insert some plastic and titanium in your hip.”
“Sigh.”
The Search Continues
No cane, no pain? That it would be so.
It’s not in the den or the bathroom, the bedroom or the tea room, the living room or the entryway. Where the Hell did I park my cane?
My cane needs a GPS system. Or better yet, how about a cane to match every pair of glasses I own? There would be one cane by the bed, another by the computer in my office, one on the sofa in the movie room, and another in the atrium where I have a second desk that serves as a way station for projects in progress. Four canes and counting; I haven’t even considered my sunglasses yet.
“Sigh.”
As the surgery date draws nearer, our household is getting nutsier, as my mother would say. The signs of stress are showing in subtle ways, like stretch marks on elastic waistbands or cracks in the walls.
R. has been grumpy and withdrawn. I’m distracted, a little depressed and having trouble overcoming the initial inertia of facing each new day after a long night spent searching for that one comfortable position. I shift. Mumbles shifts. This goes on until morning.
I am relieved to see the sun and hear the morning birds’ twitter, but then I remember, limp, limp, limp. That first step is a monumental challenge, but I guess that applies to all first steps.
“Sigh.”
I don’t often indulge in self pity, but today I have tasted a morsel, and it’s not to my liking. It’s not fair is a completely gratuitous statement, but it crept into my conversation today. Sneaky devil. I delete it immediately, but a sour aftertaste remains.
The one exception to the it’s-not-fair-is-gratuitous rule is when my bosom friend puts her arm around me, strokes my hair and says: “I know honey, life just isn’t fair. Never mind. We shall get through this together. I love you.”
I remember to offer myself compassion. I forgive my human foibles and short comings and try not to catch any passersby in the crossfire of an emotional outburst, should one erupt.
Mumbles will keep my secret. I give him an extra kiss on his proud nose, and all is well again.
I call a friend. “Tell me about you,” I say. Then I listen with my whole heart. There is no better medicine, than this.
That’s all for now. I must resume my search. The trouble is that I know I left my cane somewhere very sensible, logical and obvious.
Remember to eat chocolate -- very dark, at least 88%
Your Hipster
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