So. December was a month, right? Just as you think maybe you have everything under control, wham! Something (or a series of somethings) comes around to smack you in the face.
The holidays are rarely easy for anyone, never mind the Hallmark-type ads that fill our screens. The stress of gift-buying, the desire to make everything as memorable as possible.
Still, many of us were planning to go all-out after a year and a half in isolation. And many of us still are, notwithstanding a variant of the small spiky enemy that continues to pummel us. I hope everyone remembers to exercise caution.
I got a lot done this month. I published a book and not one but two audio version of earlier books. Big accomplishment. And yet I’ve dragged through the weeks, burdened by lost light and lonely evenings. There’s a lot to miss in December. I was married in the middle of the month but the man I wed is no longer with us. My beloved sister died just after Thanksgiving two years ago. The pandemic makes getting to remaining scattered family challenging.
Oh, and over the past month or two I’ve seen three orthopedic surgeons for intractable pain in my shoulders. The verdict is in: Bone on bone, or what they call “end-stage arthritis.” I’ve had physical therapy, injections, acupuncture, massage, etc. Nothing to do for it but replace it. I still have nearly full use of the shoulders, discomfort notwithstanding. Eventually, I will not. Now gives me the best chance of full recovery. Or does it?
I scheduled surgery for the last week in January. Without the sister who always had my back and with all the attendant anxiety that such a surgery plus the pandemic plus December can bring. Five weeks in a sling, a one-armed woman in a two-story house with a lively elderly dog with stair issues. Sitcom material, right? Or not.
I posted about it on Facebook, a piece of personal information of the sort I am usually reluctant to share. And my friends responded with offers to fly or drive in to cook or drive or watch over me and my dog.
Say what you will about Facebook; it has provided me with a robust and diverse community. Fully half of my 800 friends are writers, which in and of itself is pretty remarkable, and half of those are people I met on one site. Among them I have found people with similar quirks, habits, concerns, outlooks, and issues. Few of them live close by, which is tough. On the other hand, all of them are accessible one way or another.
The kindness reinforces my awareness that it–by which I mean survival in one form or another–takes a village. Easy to forget until you get older or more isolated or somehow disconnected. The young and the strong can perhaps go it alone. The rest of us have no choice but travel around, knock on doors, and ask for what we need. It would seem people are far more generous than we’ve been led to believe. At least that’s what I choose to believe, even on the days I despair for humankind.
Fate is not so accommodating. Covid threatens to blow all the good intentions and careful plans out of the water. This surgery may not take place right now, either by the hospital’s choice or by mine. I’m not about to ask anyone to pass through two major airports for a joint replacement.
But whenever it happens–and it will happen–I feel a little more confident asking for assistance. at some point, that may involve a paid helper. For now, it would seem that with a little effort on my part, I can locate the members of my makeshift village or even forge new friendships in order to both give and receive give comfort and aid.That’s a worthwhile holiday gift to unwrap any way you look at it.