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Back in Twenny 'aught-four...
Aug. 9th, 2006 09:04 amRecently, I caught myself giving my sister the "When I was your age" speech again. Not only that, but this time I found myself ending it with "...and we liked it!".
I like to think I'm at least partially justified in this, considering that she gets away with way more than I ever could when I was twelve. But still, when I catch myself doing that, I have to remind myself that there's only a nine year difference between us.
I know what I need to do. I need to buy myself a porch and a rocking chair, so that I might sit upon my rocking chair on my porch, rock, and wave my cane at passing whippersnappers. My lack of cane will be covered with a quick "loan" from my mother; I'll grab one of her canes out of the back of her car. She won't miss it; she has two.
Actually, I'm still not used to the fact that my mother has a cane. She doesn't use it very often - only when her back is acting up again; she had major scoliosis and had surgery as a teenager; the first person in Illinois I believe to get the rod down the spine, and she had it removed sometime after college. Her spine is still fused together, and she doesn't have the range of motion she'd like, but it was working well enough to let her accumulate plenty of sports-related injuries from childhood until about three years ago.
She hasn't played softball for about three years, hasn't played volleyball in about five, and hasn't played field hockey in over ten. Let me tell you, she was pissed when her back got so bad that she couldn't play field hockey anymore.
So as of a couple years ago, it has gotten so bad on certain days that she has trouble walking, and had to get a cane. She, not wanting to appear old and feeble and helpless, went to REI and picked out a hiking cane with a contoured sweat absorbing grip, a wrist-strap, and a removable endcap which reveals a metal tip to use to help find purchase on rocky terrain.
It's actually really cool. It's a shiny metallic blue.
She only uses it probably ten days out of the year, but it's very strange to see her when she does. I grew up with the image of a strong, athletic mom who could do anything (though I constantly tease her about her height. She's a tiny thing. Seriously, just barely 5'2" and skinny as hell). The only things I needed to help her with were heavy boxes and things that were placed too high up for her to reach. She could do anything despite her stiff back and her warped right hand (sports-related injury from about six years ago) or her near-blindness.
Now, she has trouble walking a few times during the year. Her eyesight is diminishing; she has absolutely no peripheral vision anymore. Her hair is mostly grey, and she's turning 50 next year.
She's still strong, of body, mind, and spirit. She refuses to let any of that stop her from living her life. And though I'm worrying about her more often, she's still the mom who can do (nearly) anything.
She just needs an extra hand a bit more often, that's all.
I like to think I'm at least partially justified in this, considering that she gets away with way more than I ever could when I was twelve. But still, when I catch myself doing that, I have to remind myself that there's only a nine year difference between us.
I know what I need to do. I need to buy myself a porch and a rocking chair, so that I might sit upon my rocking chair on my porch, rock, and wave my cane at passing whippersnappers. My lack of cane will be covered with a quick "loan" from my mother; I'll grab one of her canes out of the back of her car. She won't miss it; she has two.
Actually, I'm still not used to the fact that my mother has a cane. She doesn't use it very often - only when her back is acting up again; she had major scoliosis and had surgery as a teenager; the first person in Illinois I believe to get the rod down the spine, and she had it removed sometime after college. Her spine is still fused together, and she doesn't have the range of motion she'd like, but it was working well enough to let her accumulate plenty of sports-related injuries from childhood until about three years ago.
She hasn't played softball for about three years, hasn't played volleyball in about five, and hasn't played field hockey in over ten. Let me tell you, she was pissed when her back got so bad that she couldn't play field hockey anymore.
So as of a couple years ago, it has gotten so bad on certain days that she has trouble walking, and had to get a cane. She, not wanting to appear old and feeble and helpless, went to REI and picked out a hiking cane with a contoured sweat absorbing grip, a wrist-strap, and a removable endcap which reveals a metal tip to use to help find purchase on rocky terrain.
It's actually really cool. It's a shiny metallic blue.
She only uses it probably ten days out of the year, but it's very strange to see her when she does. I grew up with the image of a strong, athletic mom who could do anything (though I constantly tease her about her height. She's a tiny thing. Seriously, just barely 5'2" and skinny as hell). The only things I needed to help her with were heavy boxes and things that were placed too high up for her to reach. She could do anything despite her stiff back and her warped right hand (sports-related injury from about six years ago) or her near-blindness.
Now, she has trouble walking a few times during the year. Her eyesight is diminishing; she has absolutely no peripheral vision anymore. Her hair is mostly grey, and she's turning 50 next year.
She's still strong, of body, mind, and spirit. She refuses to let any of that stop her from living her life. And though I'm worrying about her more often, she's still the mom who can do (nearly) anything.
She just needs an extra hand a bit more often, that's all.
