Hope in Small Doses

Jul 212024
 

These are unsettling times. Not the first time some of us have experienced unsettling times, mind you. But if age grants us a certain perspective, it also grants those of us who are older a feeling of vulnerability. Amidst all the talk of moving to another country or even another state, the reality is, we mature types have to consider how easily we can get proper healthcare or how easily we can expect to make and keep friends, the absolute sine qua non for getting old.

Early on, I developed a wariness about the world around me. I understood that people could and would do unspeakable things to other people. I learned that words could wound. I recognized events beyond my control could deeply affect me, even as I let myself get affected. I tried to protect myself with logic and fact, which only went so far. At my core, I was an emotional type.

I came up with an image of a house, i.e. my safe space. A cottage somewhere in Switzerland, I think, with comfortable beds, terrific views, and a dog. The windows were framed by heavy shutters I could close against discomfort, despair, or anything in between.

I retain that image, even as I’ve grown to realize shutting oneself away only works until it doesn’t.

When my husband was killed on 9/11, I needed a plan to pull me back from the brink. The Serenity Prayer (minus the divine supplication) provided a key to peace, if only I could find the strength to accept what I could change, the courage to change what I could change, and the wisdom to know the difference.

A worthy goal but not a way forward. I needed hope. Not traditional hope with its dependence on guaranteed outcomes, but a more flexible version that might reconcile uncertainty with a cautious optimism. A version available to the spiritual and the skeptical, the wounded and the resilient. Me. All of us.

I called it hope in small doses, which is also what I called the book that came out of my journey to find what I named “reasonable happiness in unreasonable times,” which I then used as my subtitle. Cherie Siebert provided the beautiful photos.

Although plenty has changed in the years since the first edition was released, plenty has not. We still have so-called leaders claiming to have solutions for every problem. Certainly is comforting, absolute certainty even more so. You and I may know it’s a chimera, but enough people are buying into it—have always bought into it—that it has dangerous implications. The alternative is not to reject hope and close the shutters permanently but to look out and wonder, “What if?”

Hope in Small Doses doesn’t have all the answers. It does have questions, suggestions, discoveries, and plenty of anecdotes. I like to think there’s something in there for everyone, but of course that isn’t true. I’m okay with that, since I understand there are no guarantees. There is, however, the possibility that you will find something valuable to guide you through the tough times within and without. I certainly hope you do.

Hope in Small Doses: Reasonable Happiness in Unreasonable Times is on sale at various venues
in e-book and print. Both versions are deeply discounted on Amazon through the end of the summer.

 

Retool

Apr 042024
 

Well. March went out like a lion and so far, April hasn’t changed her stripes. Rain and wind have kept me mostly inside with my bored dog. Low evening temperatures have stopped buds in their tracks like deer caught in the headlights.

The weather hasn’t helped my mood. Neither has the long (by my standards) recovery period following my ankle replacement at the beginning of December. The process has been physically and emotionally draining. My entire body was affected. Being off my feet for six weeks was isolating. I couldn’t even play with my puppy. Pepper seemed happy with her assortment of caregivers. Still, I’ve wondered about all the chewed shoes, socks, towels, pants pockets, blankets, pillows, furniture…the list goes on.

Four months out, I’m up on my feet and walking, albeit with a lot less energy than I’d like. I do see green growth here and there, along with plenty of daffodils and forsythia. Despite grey skies, blustery winds, and flooded streets, April will eventually deliver the goods, along with my birthday. I’m now old enough to be firmly planted into the demographic journalists, script writers, and healthcare marketers describe as elderly. No way around it. To most people, age is not just a number.

By the way, it almost always rains on my birthday.

One early March morning that falsely promised an early spring, I decided I had to yank myself out of my post-surgery, pre-birthday slump. I started small, making the bed, doing the laundry, putting out the garbage, and walking the dog. A quick ride on the bike ended in ten minutes (it takes a fair amount of foot strength to pedal). One day I brought the back porch furniture up from the basement. My spine paid for that. I stained two wooden planters and earned several cramped fingers. Even a simple repair to my floor moldings (did I mention my dog chewed the moldings?) did me in.

At some point, I sat in my recliner with the heating pad at my back and an ice pack on my shoulder and decided I needed to retool. In a literal sense, that meant throwing out anything that was too heavy, too cumbersome or too challenging for me to use. Who uses a screwdriver anymore when there are lightweight power drills, not to mention fairly efficient electric can openers? Time for a quick trip to the hardware store.

It’s also meant retooling my attitude. I don’t need to become a fixer-upper at my age (there, I said it). I do, however, need to get back to the writing I’ve let slide. Future staining, painting, drilling, hammering, or lifting projects will have to be grouped together and offered to a handy person whose hands work better than mine.

Nor do I need to become the elite athlete I never was. I want to continue to walk my dog, throw her a ball, wrestle with her, ride my bike however far I can, take trips on occasion, and get back to Pilates. I want to eat, drink, and socialize in moderation and savor my alone time. I want to get better at meditating and better at both resisting and forgiving my nutritional transgressions. I’d like to wrestle my rage to the ground or at least push it into a sturdier container.

I’d also like to sharpen my skill set and add to it. Get back to writing, of course, maybe switch up the genres. Improve my French and my rudimentary Spanish. Start a couple of projects and see them through without worrying about their cost or chance of success in the wide world. Be more helpful to people who need help.

While I’m at it, I’m going to learn the Texas two-step. Beyoncé has a new song that’s got everyone kicking up their heels. All I need is some patience, some focus, and a hat.

Reboot

Feb 062024
 

Welcome to February, which I have declared as my new beginning. It’s a logical decision, given that the amaryllis has finally bloomed and I’ve finally begun to walk.

The flowers were a gift from very dear but distant friends during the challenging period following ankle replacement. Throughout December, the bulbs stayed stubbornly stubby as I railed against a thoroughly predictable but no less difficult post-operative month.

December was both the best and the worst possible time for me to get this surgery. Best because assuming all went well, I would be walking in the spring. Worst because it’s a depressing month, made more so by twin anniversaries that remind me of loss, the shorter days, the forced cheerfulness that marks the season. I do like holiday lights, but I couldn’t go out to see them. In fact, I was restricted by a leg in a bulky cast that had to stay above my heart 90% of the time. My plans involved getting to and from the powder room. The highlight of my day was the arrival of the dog walkers.

The initial recovery was complicated by a house with too many stairs and a bumpy start with my home healthcare. Despite two months of advanced planning, I couldn’t manage to get an aide who could both tolerate dogs and help her patient when it was most needed. After just one frustrating week, the aide was replaced by an acquaintance who welcomed the opportunity to earn some money and help me out. With a couple of kids and a full-time job, she couldn’t be 24/7, but her presence at night was most welcome. She kept me from worrying about the possibility of tumbling down the stairs or dealing with a dog emergency (there were none, thank goodness).

My puppy Pepper Ann, not quite a year old, proved essential to my well-being. Even her antics, which included a tendency to snatch towels, gloves, sweaters, hats, shoes, served to entertain or at least occupy me. But she slept through the night and considering the chaos of assorted strangers and clunky equipment, she adjusted remarkably well.

December gave way to January, which included a mix of good news and frustration. The surgeon replaced the three-pound cast with a one-pound walking boot and declared I was “healing nicely.” Great. I was still crawling up the stairs to get to my bed (Believe me when I say relocating to the first floor was never an option). I couldn’t yet walk or drive. The caregiver departed and I was on my own. It’s not easy to make dinner and get the plate on the table while on a knee scooter or a walker.

On the other hand, I had people who showed up to make the all-important Trader Joe’s run or to walk the dog during our torrential rain and the two snowstorms.

During my lowest points, I used Jeremy Renner as inspiration. You may remember (or not know) that last January, the 52-year-old actor got caught under the wheels of a snowplow that weighed more than 14,300 pounds. I’ve avidly followed his recovery as he has fought his way back over the year to health and employment as an action hero. Since my aims were more modest than becoming an Avenger, I told myself I could get through the worst of it.

And I have.

Now it’s February. I received permission to wean myself off the boot and did that in one day (okay, maybe I discarded the boot instead of weaning off it. No going back now). This week, I’ve  substituted a sturdy cane for the walker. I’ve been cleared to drive short distances and that’s a big deal. The rest is between me and my body–and my physical therapist.

I may be ahead of the curve, but I can’t rush this process. Ankle replacement surgery is serious. Recovery is slow.

I will get there. After all, the amaryllis are out in full force to cheer me on. Happy new year.

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