Getting old is not for wimps. Or so they say.
My knee gave out on me last week. The pain was excruciating. However, a few days with rest and ice, it improved a lot. But it didn’t go away. Tests are still pending.
It is very interesting to find myself looking at the world through the lens of pain and decreased mobility and increased dependency. And a walker.
I don’t care for it very much.
A walker is supposed to be for old people. Like really old people. I am only 61. Almost 62. That is not really old, is it? (Probably depends on who you are talking to.)
In addition to my own mobility issues, my husband passed out and fell. He ended up with bruised and painful ribs as well as a few abrasions. And an overnight stay in the hospital.
So here we sit. Hubby and I in our matching easy chairs. Watching television. Waiting for time to heal us.
Laughing at each other’s attempts to walk to the kitchen.
Laughing because it is a lot better than crying.
Laughing because we still can.
Now we look like the walking wounded whenever we go somewhere. Which isn’t very often these days and rarely far from the safety of our living-room chairs. It takes a lot of energy to get ourselves downstairs (via elevator) and into the car. Never mind the return trip home.
Now I notice other peoples’ infirmities and assistive devices more closely. This morning I had a conversation with a perfect stranger about their walker that has a seat and wheels.
Praise the Lord for walkers with wheels.
Copyright 2016 Colleen Spiro