This has, in some ways, been a hard year. In April I had a hip replacement; in May a root canal; and in August a dental crown, an infection form an ingrown toenail and an infected throat cyst. So I have been almost continuously on antibiotics, not to mention the antibiotic eyedrops I take for three days before and a week after I get poked in the eye with a sharp stick (hypodermic needle) every couple of months to treat the eye that had a stroke sometime back.
Somewhere along the line I started dropping things. No sensation of letting go; they just suddenly were falling out of my hand. When I spilled a whole mug of coffee on the heirloom carpet my son-in-law inherited from his mother, I cleaned up the spill and then called the doctor. A Nerve Conduction Test confirmed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. So now I'm waiting for surgery on my wrist. Of course, after the surgery I will take more antibiotics.
I figure that by the time this year is over, my bugs will be resistant to every antibiotic on the planet. Thank heaven there's still charcoal.
Right after my hip surgery, I seemed to be progressing swiftly, but after I graduated from the walker to the cane, progress slowed down. My daily walks with the dog dropped from 40 minutes to 20, and eventually down to 5 or 10. It's a good thing her daddy walks her twice a day because I haven't been able to at all for a good week now.
Turns out, I was pushing too hard and need to slow down. Oh-oh. I'm the kind who prays, "Lord give me patience --right now!"
The constant exhaustion worried me, but that is simply the result of healing. When I broke my leg 30 years ago, I found that every time I sat down, I fell asleep. Between that and the new knowledge that the anesthetic doesn't completely leave the body for a full year, I can relax and stop thinking that my body is deteriorating.
I used the cane too long, though, and my back started killing me -- with pain much greater than the arthritic hip had caused before surgery. It takes only the slightest misalignment to throw off this intricately designed and complexly integrated body of ours. So I have given up all walking aids. When I first get out of a chair, I shuffle and hobble awkwardly for the first couple dozen steps, but then I'm all right. The back is improving daily.
I have managed to cook supper almost every day, but often that means grabbing something from the freezer. And I have completed a few writing assignments, but not nearly enough. I have even, with much prayer and trepidation, agreed to be the PR Officer for my church, sending articles to the conference publication. I sent one in last month. My daughter, a TV newswoman, took most of the pix because I was hurting too much to get in position.
So I think I can be forgiven for thinking I was sinking ungracefully into old age. (See? I was getting to that.) But my daughter and grandson put an end to such thoughts as we were returning home from grocery shopping.
My daughter told me she had been reading about someone's 70-year-old parent, "And my first thought was, 'What would it be like to have a 70-year-old parent?'" When we both burst out laughing, my 16-year-old grandson wanted to know why. We told him that I am now 71.
"Since when?" he demanded.
I assured my daughter that she will never know what it's like to have a 70-year-old parent. I will be forever young. In fact, since I am really only 25, I wonder how on earth she managed to get to be older than I am.
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