I am writing from my bed today as I keep my left ankle elevated and iced after enduring an accident yesterday. I have not allowed my advancing age to slow me down one iota until this moment. I have spent the last week decking the halls of my home and my yard with holiday cheer. I have climbed up and down the ladder to my attic to retrieve lights and ornaments and other decorations that I use to celebrate the Christmas season. I’ve been engaged a a flurry of activity, ignoring the pains in my knees, hips and back. I’ve learned that a dose of Advil keeps me going like the Ever Ready Bunny. I have ignored warnings from my daughters that is time for me to slow down just a bit, but my vanity would not allow me to do such a thing.
Pride goeth before the fall and I pushed myself a bit too far last night resulting in an ankle injury while hanging lights on a tabletop tree. My attempts to simply keep moving came to a halt when my ankle swelled to double its size and began to show bruising. Walking became almost impossible as a searing pain jolted me with each step. Fearing that I had perhaps broken a bone as I had when I was decades younger, I decided that I needed to have it checked with a doctor. With the help of my husband, Mike, I limped down the stairs and into the car for a visit to the Methodist Pearland Emergency Center.
Luckily it was a slow night so the emergency crew saw me right away. Explaining how my klutzy tendencies had landed me there became more and more embarrassing as the doctor and nurses looked at me the same way my daughters might have. Somehow I understood that they were wondering why someone my age was standing on a chair to decorate a tree on top of a table in the second story of my home. As I told my tale over and over again I began to feel more and more stupid. In my head I was asking why I had not just settled down after dinner. I should have patted myself on the back for putting in a twelve hour day of creating Christmas cheer. The words “if only” danced through my head like visions of sugarplums.
While waiting for the X-rays to be developed Mike and I began joking about my situation. I suggested that I might tattoo the word “Klutz” across my forehead because I had injured the exact same ankle only a couple of weeks earlier after tripping over a rolled up rug in a friend’s home. I seem to have a knack for getting into wacky trouble as I rush through the world as though I am still sixteen years old, ignoring suggestions that maybe it’s time for me to surrender some of my compulsive behaviors just a bit.
When my mother and mother-in-law were my age they had both simplified their lives greatly. They no longer hosted large holiday gatherings at their homes. That job fell to me. Their once extravagant decorations were permanently stored away. They might have one tiny tree to designate the season but nothing more. I understood their need to slow down because both of them had serious health issues that sapped their energy. My mother-in-law died at Christmastime when she was only seventy-six years old. My mother would last longer but her stamina became more and more stressed with each passing year. I, on the other hand, have always felt like my grandfather who lived the the ripe old age of one hundred eight.
Somehow I have always felt invulnerable to the challenges often associated with aging. I bristle over questions about whether or not I have fallen or how many rugs I have in my home that may trip me. I refuse offers for a visiting nurse to come inspect my home because I am the one who is caring for my ninety five year old father-in-law. How dare anyone insinuated that I am no longer as capable as I once was!
The truth is that I have to keep myself busy with writing and reading and watching Christmas movies from my bed or I will surely be tempted to resume my decorating with abandon. After all I have a boot that keeps my ankle stationary and while I don’t maneuver as quickly as usual, I can still get around with minimal pain. I know I can gut it out, but perhaps nature is telling me to surrender just a wee bit. In refusing to acknowledge that I should begin to avoid climbing on tall ladders and crawling around in my attic or I will surely be as hard headed as my mother once was and my father-n-law now is.
I have always promised myself to be logical about my capabilities like my grandfather was. I have hoped to be willing to hand over my car keys before my daughters have to wrench them from me in a big scene. I don’t want to be that old person who is driving the younger folk crazy with my demands to do things that I should be slowly phasing out of my life. The beauty of my grandfather was that he always knew when it was time to fold his hand without anyone having the plead with him to do so. He was a delightful elder who made it easy for his younger caretakers.
I suspect that this is a wakeup call for me. I am going to have to learn to accept help and even to scale down my demands on myself. I can think of no greater gift to my children than to show some common sense beginning with taking the doctor’s advice and allowing my ankle to heal before I go traipsing about again. I’ve bruised a bone and created a contusion on my soft tissue just to prove that I can still be a person of boundless energy. I now see that as a somewhat selfish thing to do.
So I resolve to find joy in doing nothing today other than allowing my ankle to heal. I accept that the world will still keep going even if I am stagnant in it for a day. I’ve got seven strong grandchildren who should be able to do the hunting in the attic and they will be all the happier in knowing that I am demonstrating my grandfather’s good sense. I suppose now is the time for me to learn how to let go gracefully.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 