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.

Dec 282022
 

The holidays aren’t what they used to be, at least not for me. Although I have a remarkable collection of friends, I am alone for all or a good portion of nearly every holiday I can think of and a few I can’t. Not like the family gatherings that took place during the season.

I used to be sad about that. No more. It’s not just that I’ve adapted. It’s become apparent that many of us get swept up trying to turn the season into a Hallmark moment, especially when children are involved. Yet there’s so much we can’t control: the cancelled flights, the crushing storm, the various viral diseases. All of these conspire to obliterate even the best laid plans.

I appreciate the effort to spread joy, share happiness, grab a piece of peace, and bask in the glow of lights—so many lights. I love the feel-good stories, the way that people have opened their hearts and homes to others who are stranded. I’d like people to be kind all year round and maybe they are, and we just aren’t hearing enough about that.

I feel fortunate this year, more than I have in some time. It’s about having not just necessities but also friends. Say what you will about social media, it has connected me to an amazing assortment of people who have provided me with a meaningful virtual community. Meanwhile, I have an IRL group. Seven of us got together for a Christmas Day that included a pop-up movie event at my house and coffee and chocolate at a hotel filled to capacity with families. We grabbed seats in a roped-off section of the lobby away from most of the mayhem and had a lovely time. Ho-ho-ho.

So now it’s nearly New Year’s Eve, another invented milestone. The beginning of a new year always marks an opportunity to express our wishes for an improved future, not to mention a chance to “do better.” For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s hard to make promises in the dead of winter when all we want are the gifts of more light, more heat, more color, less strife.

Still, markers exist for a reason. I’d like 2023 to be the year I design a custom-fit version of gratitude, one that feels less practiced and more present, less  saccharine and more mindful, less self-conscious and more aware.

I’d also like 2023 to be the year I become more tolerant. That will be harder. Because while I wish for peace with all my heart, while I support peacebuildig and conflict resolution organizations, while the idea of “reasonable discourse” sounds good in theory, I have become increasingly impatient with lies, personal attacks, false equivalencies, conspiracy theories, close mindedness, and all-out hatred.

I hate hate. I hate how well it serves the people who would manipulate and the people willing to be manipulated. I hate that intolerance is a cornerstone of entire movements that pretend to be about taking something back when really they’re about keeping someone else down. I hate the corrosive nature of hatred, a violent state of mind in which the end-game is some sort of wholesale elimination or domination.

How does one support peace with a less than hate-free heart? I don’t know. I guess my other goal for the new year  is to create a custom-fit version of tolerance that doesn’t put up with intolerance.

I have my work cut out for me.

Mar 112022
 

 

There’s a lot of hurt in the world right now—mental, physical, emotional. Between the havoc wreaked by the pandemic and the changing climate, and the dangerous machinations of another would-be tyrant with nuclear weapons, we face a period of instability that was unimaginable just, oh, six years ago.

Let’s face it; we’re in crisis mode. Tempers are frayed. Everyone is outraged or afraid—or both. Loss seems ever-present: loss of income, health, status, freedom, control. We’re all so angry, which is to say we’re feeling powerless or vulnerable, even if we can’t admit it.

Six years ago, I wasn’t considering a shoulder replacement (or maybe it was a “someday” sort of proposition). I couldn’t imagine that my sister would contract a fatal disease, and I wasn’t thinking about my faithful canine companion getting old.

I could spend the rest of this post bemoaning the state of affairs in the world, except for this: I need to acknowledge that despite everything that’s going wrong, spring will still appear in the next few weeks.

Spring is all about the new—new growth, new life, new freedom from coats, gloves, and bare branches. It serves as a metaphor for hope. While it may be challenging to spark joy in the darkest months of the year, halfway through March, I start to feel uplifted. Foolish perhaps but also necessary.

My neighbor reminds me that one last storm will hit us here on the mid-Atlantic coast this weekend. I remind him that we’ll have light extending into the evening when we turn the clocks ahead. Besides, the birds know what’s coming. We’re inundated with robins, cardinals, blue jays, and the ever-present mockingbird, along with a couple dozen other types who live in the woods behind my house. In just a few days, we move above freezing and we don’t look back.

I’m ready to embrace the season, even with one arm, and take in the promise it brings.