My mother, when she was alive, used to talk about getting old, about how from one year to the next she found herself able to do fewer things. I believed her, but in an abstract way. After all, I could still do pretty much anything. Yes, I was low on energy, but I’ve always been sedentary. And I’d recovered from surgery for TMJ and a hysterectomy just fine; in fact, better than fine, in that I was able to do things faster than anyone expected. Obviously I was a fast healer. And then I broke my wrist….
Last year, on a day of snow showers, I found the one ice patch in the entire city. Out went my foot from under me; straight down I went, landing on a very well cushioned part of my anatomy, and my left hand. I knew immediately that it was broken. I couldn’t move it in any direction, and it felt curiously dead. What I chiefly felt at that moment was disgust. Yes, I knew that time would pass, and I’d get over it. I just had to deal with it, day by day. I was soon back to work, where my co-workers decorated my cast with pictures of Snoopy, and the symbol for crash test dummies. My boss even wrote a limerick. Sure enough, time passed. The cast came off and I headed for physical therapy, which I worked at with a vengeance. In time I got my strength and mobility back. End of a bad chapter - or so I thought.
Fast forward to May of this year. My daughter and I were on vacation in California. We went to Santa Monica a couple of times, and Grauman’s Chinese theater, and Universal Studios. On the last day of our trip we went to the Getty Museum, with a trip to UCLA planned for afterwards. As we wandered through the Getty’s gardens, I tripped over a low curb protecting the flowerbeds. Again I went down, this time landing on my right hand. I will not repeat what I said to myself. Suffice it to say it wasn’t nice. This wasn’t supposed to happen, I thought. I had this problem last year, and I should have been OK for a few more years. Plus I was 3000 miles away from home and my support system. How was I going to drive to a hospital for treatment, let alone get back to our hotel in Hollywood, 12 miles distant, in LA’s traffic? And then to the airport the next day? This was serious. I was the only adult in our group. There was no one I could call for help. Eventually, though, I found myself in the hands of two very helpful EMT’s. They loaded me in an ambulance, which I found vaguely humiliating. Then there we were, the ER at the UCLA Medical Center. We got there after all, just not in the way we’d planned.
I had a great orthopedic doctor. He was the best looking man I’ve seen in a long time. As he gave me his diagnosis, I was staring at him, wondering how I’d describe him back home. Dr. McDreamy has been taken. I know! Dr. Delicious! Hey, Mary. Stop staring at this guy, and listen to what he’s saying. He set the wrist, wrapped it up, and sent me on my way. I’d already given up all thoughts of driving. Hertz could come tow the car. We’d take a cab back to the hotel, and to heck with the price. Then we’d catch a shuttle to the airport the next day.
All worked out. Though I couldn’t find an open pharmacy for my prescription for pain pills (note to LA: leave the pharmacies open later on Saturday nights, and open earlier in the morning. I mean, in such a big city, shouldn’t pharmacies be more easily available)? After having my cast screened at security at the airport, to make sure I wasn’t disguising a bomb or some such, I flew across the continent with my arm upraised, for the swelling. My sister met me on the other end, and I found myself in the care of people who mean a lot to me. Now I sport a hot pink cast, with various signatures and a picture of Garfield. I’ve been given the reluctant go-ahead from my doctor to drive, thank God. When patrons at the library ask me what happened, I tell them I punched someone for returnng a book late. Thank God I can get around and work and eat chocolate, though I can’t use a fork and writing is hard. However…
We return to the first paragraph. I’m not bouncing back from this as quickly as I did as a child, or even as recently as last year. I get tired easily, and I move slower than usual. Motrin and Vicodrin are my best friends. And I can’t get up much energy to work on the book I want to put out this week. My mother was right, as she usually was. What a drag it is getting old.
This has been a long, and somewhat self-indulgent entry, but if I don’t feel sorry for myself, who will? Such is life. Thank you Pat, Marcia, Tom, Chris, Kling, Karen, and Frank, and my wonderful doctor, Mi Haisman, who asked me what I was doing back in her office. And thank all of you who’ve persevered through this long story. I promise you that better days, and better entries, are coming.
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