I've never had much patience with
folks who spent most of their time monitoring every little physical and
emotional twinge or fluctuation they felt. However, there must be something
about having your long- and short-term plans abruptly cancelled and your
previously fixed (some might say "rigid") routine completely shattered that
inclines you to introspection. Since my February 1 lesson in what even a
relatively slow-moving motor vehicle can do to flesh, bone and sinew, I have
become far more acutely aware of how complicated and demanding many of the
supposedly simple things in life really are. For example, when a man is in the
bathroom, neither his razor, nor his toothbrush, nor his nose-hair pluckers, nor
any anything else he's holding works nearly as reliably when he's standing on
one foot.
Likewise,
even when you're reasonably fit, a staircase that normally presents no
challenge at all is suddenly transformed into Pike's Peak if you're trying to
slide up it backward on your butt. Beyond that, even if you do most of your
work seated on said fundament, keeping your foot elevated at all times is damn
hard, especially if even your normal flexibility makes putting your feet higher
than your knees--much less your heart--a monumental achievement.
In
general, being even partially incapacitated shifts every aspect of your daily
regimen into ultra-slow motion. Distressed at the prospect of a protracted bout
with the shower, I became an especially impatient patient yesterday morning
until the longsuffering Ms. O.B. (who makes Mother Theresa seem quite
self-centered by comparison) finally got fed up and advised me to "STFU or I'll
take your walker away!" Needless to say, this was a bit unnerving for a guy who
had at least hoped to be immune to such a threat until "assisted living" was
his only alternative. Given what she's had to put up with, Ms. O.B. was more
than justified in talking a little trash to her old man. I cleaned up my act
immediately. I promise you that my recent misfortune serves only to remind me
how lucky I am to have spent two-thirds of my life with Ms. O.B. and to have
the opportunity to see that arrangement continue, provided I can get a little
better at dodging distracted motorists.
Meanwhile,
I have been extremely impressed not only by the skill of the professional
caregivers I have encountered to date but by their compassion and patience.
When you're about to take a painful and humiliating tumble in the course of
demonstrating to a large, crowded waiting room that you have not yet mastered
the fine art of crutch management--and, from the looks of it, like as not never will--there's something
really special about hearing, "You just sit right there till I can get you a
wheelchair, Baby!" While I truly believe that dedicated health professionals
are bonafide candidates for sainthood, I can't help but think back to the days
of my youth when most of the care anyone in the aged or infirm demographic ever
got was provided by their own families. When our grandparents reached that
stage, "rest homes" were simply beyond the pale, if not financially, then
morally, for most members of my parents' generation. The sacrifices of career,
leisure, privacy, and plain old body and spirit that my folks and many others
made in order to take their folks into their own homes and care for them for
extended periods are disturbing enough for members of my generation to recall,
and I feel distressingly certain, that kind of sacrifice is well beyond
anything that most of today's children could imagine or might be willing to
entertain.
Although
I'm extremely fortunate to receive such first-rate professional and private
attention, an item in today's paper definitely tells me where we dog-ass old
profs stand in the grand scheme of things. While there has been no progress
whatsoever in tracking down the person whose vehicle crushed my ankle and cracked
my noggin just two weeks ago, without even a second glance and from a mile
away, the local authorities could identify a guy who nicked somebody's fender
two years ago. Realistically, the best shot at nabbing my assailant might be to
put the entirely plausible word out that although she didn't quite get the job
done, she's up for a public service award based on a damn fine effort.
All
seriousness aside, I have been blessed with many expressions of concern as well
as numerous get-well gifts. I'm grateful for them, of course, but if the gifts
you receive reflect perceptions of what you're about; then I guess it says
something that most of my bounty has been in the form of beverages not available
for legal purchase on the Sabbath in these parts. If there's an upside here,
it's that all of this firewater has been extremely high end. No "Natty Light"
or "Mad Dog" for the ol' Bloviator. Nossiree! Come to think of it, trying to do
justice to the generosity of my friends may be partly responsible for my recent
lapses into introspection. Don't worry though, if you are in these parts and
stop by, I'll pour you the best I've got left, and I promise not to talk about
myself, once I've shown you my X-rays, of course.
