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.
Molly has turned fourteen, which means she’s either 88, 84, or 76 years old, depending on which chart you follow. I prefer the one at her vet’s office, which measures her size, weight, current health and puts her at 72 years. I prefer that calculation. I like to think that she, like me, has a bit more time left on the clock. Although such things are unpredictable at our age.
If you’d asked me twenty years ago whether I’d care for (much less worry about) a senior dog, I would have said, “Doubtful.” Then again, if you’d asked me where I expected to be, I’d have said in Florida or Canada with my loving husband. Then he died and I had some quick adjusting to do, which ended up not being quick at all. Four years of hyper-activity only helped me so much. After I slowed down, the walls began to close in. I still lived where I lived, one of two occupants in a house I couldn’t seem to leave. Thus, a dog. A puppy, actually, whom I purchased when she was nine weeks and I was four years into my grief and still deeply afraid of making lasting connections.
She was a mellow puppy, which made things easier. She was also a life-saver, an identity-changer (I’m a dog owner!), a bit of a headache, and an absolute guarantee that the low moods and the dark thoughts to which I am prone could not pin me to my house, let alone my bed. My canine companion’s immediate and ongoing needs have always compelled me to, as a friend once said, “Get over your bad self.”
even shorter intervals. Her health can turn on a dime. That’s hard for me to accept, but I must. Living with a rapidly aging creature is a teaching moment. I frequently find myself lacking in either patience or gratitude. The care and maintenance of a senior dog requires the one and urges the other. That’s a lesson I’m working hard to absorb, a lesson that will be Molly’s lasting gift to me.
