Is pain a growing fear as you age? Is it part of your identity once you pass the sixty gate?
When I was ten years old, a boy swung a shovel with a rusty corner at a bee. I had just stooped down to the ground to pick something up. When I stood up, the shovel’s rusty corner came straight down into the top of my head. I was the pain. The pain was me. I was scared to death as a literal geyser of blood sprung out of my head, drenching my clothes.
Does a fog envelope you when you awaken in the morning, leaving you groggy and in-between the worlds of night and day? Or perhaps you feel like you are somewhere between Jekyll and Hyde?
My stomach hit rock bottom as the medical professional spoke with me after my total hip replacement.
He said, “When you received total hip replacement surgery, they took 40 percent of that muscle. The result is that your left buttock will not ever be as strong as it was, nor as firm as your right cheek.”
Dancing is an upper for me. If I am driving and oldies are playing, my fingers are tapping on the steering wheel. I am in sync with my bebopping shoulders. At a concert, don’t expect me to be sitting down if some great rocking tunes fill the air.
Doing dress-ups as a child, I could visualize all kinds of gala costumes. Dresses, accessories and textures that would befit the most beautiful expressions of the wishful designs.
In my imagination there were many special events to attend in those fabulous creations. These were events that only I could see.
He is tall. 6’4”. I am short. 5’2”. As his mother, I sometimes wonder, when I look at his big feet, how he ever grew to be such a giant when he was born a preemie, 35 years ago.
In the 1950s, in Kansas, where I grew up, little girls always kept their legs together when sitting. They were seen and not heard. It was unthinkable to have the same privileges as boys – like not wearing shirts on blistering hot, humid summer days.