As the old saying goes, growing old is not for wimps. Bill and I are testing to see just our how well we score on the wimpiness scale, all in one week.
After a lovely couple of weeks of frivolity, during which we felt practically like teenagers, we spent yesterday afternoon gathering up the necessary accoutrements for the next month-and-a-half for this wary blogger…..
Both pieces of equipment are designed to keep my left foot from touching the ground for a period of up to six weeks, beginning this Friday. Though apprehensive, I admit that I was also somewhat excited to use the knee scooter on the left. I’d seen it used by others, and they always looked peaceful and accepting of their temporary fate. Why, it might be fun, I thought to myself.
Until I tried using it to get to the car. My balance was off, the scooter weighs a lot more than I thought it would or should, and folding it down to fit in the trunk takes a Master’s degree in Engineering, something I don’t possess. I have trouble folding a piece of paper to tuck into an envelope. It became clear to me that riding the knee scooter would be a lot harder — and a lot less fun — than riding my little gas-powered scooter back in Denver on sunny summer days.
By the way, I had a grudging acceptance of the walker (a bargain acquired for a mere $8 at Goodwill) until Bill began talking about the need to put neon green tennis balls on the front. “It will keep you from slipping,” he assured me.
I told him that if they could put a man on the moon — or even more timely, if Jeff Bezos can go into space — surely they have invented something that one places on the front of a walker that isn’t neon green and fuzzy, and doesn’t scream I am old and decrepit, and I’m not afraid to knock you over if you get in my way. Bill was quiet for a few moments, and then he answered, “You know, I’m not sure they ever have. I’ve always just seen the green tennis balls.”
Damn. I might risk slipping.
And speaking of Bill, he had oral surgery done yesterday under general anesthesia. He was pretty out of it when I brought him home, but, being Bill, he was underneath his sports car tightening bolts by mid-afternoon. You can’t keep a good man down.
He was sent home with far fewer teeth (which will eventually be replaced by implants) and an order to eat soft foods only for a few days. I bought him a chocolate milkshake to lift his spirits. By early afternoon, he was eating what he considers to be acceptable “soft food.”…..
I managed to convince him that soup also counted as soft food, and that a lifetime of eating donuts and drinking milk shakes is what brought him to his current situation. Well worth the trouble, he undoubtedly thought.
As the countdown for my surgery continues, I am using my husband as a model of how to think positive. “You will just have to buck up,” he told me yesterday when I was fretting about the knee scooter. My answer to him included a word that rhymes with buck, and I don’t think he will provide that particular piece of advice again.
By the way, after we got home with the scooter, Bill commenced to drive it in circles around our house, making NASCAR noises.
Until he crashed, and it once again became a scooter. And demonstrated to me that it will likely kill me.