Last evening, I took myself off to bed at the usual time—having done some minor tidying around the house. I’d settled in reading when one of the boys began yowling, thumping, scratching, throwing objects around—somewhere. Tiger Tiger appeared right away, but Tuxedo was not in his known hiding places: the washing machine drum, the dishwasher, or any lower cupboard. I was slow to realize that the ruckus came from my tiny pantry. That Tuxedo must have gotten in when I stowed away cereal and cookies. I opened the door frantically—in other words, quickly—to be bowled over by a flying box of graham crackers, leftover Halloween candy, full bottles of Tanqueray gin and Johnnie Walker Red and a topless jar of sesame oil. Which whipped around like a whirling dervish before emptying itself out on the entry rug. Tuxedo had flown out first.
I’m six weeks beyond my left knee replacement surgery. Were it not for the rapid disintegration of my right knee scheduled for replacement early in January, I’d be pretty stable. But not enough to get down on my haunches to begin the degreasing process. I returned briefly to bed—hoping to let the mess go until morning. And then second-guessed myself. I got back up and deployed fistfuls of Lysol wipes—reaching as far as I could from a chair and then affixing the wipes to my ever-handy old-people grabber. I got the rug into a garbage bag and wiped down the bottles that didn’t break but got doused. And then returned to bed—with orange, oily feet.
I am not an IN’valid. And haven’t been since my surgery. If your imagination runs like mine you picture a wicker wheel chair with a shaky figure clad in a blue robe whose lap and legs are covered by a blanket. Or you see an old lady propped up in bed wearing a lace bed jacket and sipping from one of those Victorian feeding cups—half spout and half bowl. Thanks to “modern” medicine I was out of bed and walking the same day as my surgery. The floor nurse couldn’t wait to discharge me the following morning and never offered to help me dress. I came home to thoughtful, wise friends who helped rearrange the house just enough to make navigating with a walker easy. I began physical therapy at a nearby clinic two days later.
Now, I’ve retired the walkers til January, can do my own laundry, fill and empty the dishwasher, pop cocktail hour popcorn, play fetch with Tuxedo until he’s bored. So, I don’t feel like an IN’valid.
What I feel keenly is inVAL’id.
The words are, of course, from exactly the same origin: Latin in-validus, not-strong. Their more obvious application is, of course, for sick folks. Folks experiencing a long or wasting illness.
But the version that plagues me also means without a strong foundation, something not based in fact, OR no longer useful or current.
Bingo. In many ways, growing into and through these retirement years is all an exercise in inVALidity. An exercise in trying to feel useful and current. To understand a changing world. To feel a bit of prowess after we’ve outgrown the careers or at least the money-making chapters of our lives. To keep adept enough at our devices to reach children and read the news.
We feel an inVAL’id when we are pandered to, when our white hair or slow walk earns us a hand offered too quickly. Or a sharp reminder that—to someone else—we look unsteady. Even sometimes when we might be grateful for assistance, we blanche when younger folks just assume that we need them. Or need their sharp advice on what we should or shouldn’t do. And we really really bridle when our children or grandchildren watch how we park the car or take a left hand turn or slip into our garages. Caring is so often braided with one strand of smugness or impatience.
My further experience of inVAL’idity during these last two months has been the absence of a real foundation: a new, fake knee that’s learning its duty and an old one that has outworn its usefulness. And because I’ve had such good help, such incredibly skilled and thoughtful assistance from friends, I’ve been able to coddle both knees. And to sink into a kind of decadent and pampered life. Need a snack, “Here, I’ll get it for you.” “Let me take the trash out.” “Here’s today’s mail.” “You can just flip the coffee pot on in the morning.”
What a life! Except, of course, my own slide from recovery to lazy. From recommended rehabilitation to not-so-recommended stagnation. What an easy, alluring regression it’s been. Lovely, except for the slight bite removed from my self-respect. Except for the potent danger of inertia. Which danger runs rife through these years anyway.
I have a “to do” list here by my elbow and have made some headway today. And this season of Christmas demands action and activity. And once moving—just like our physics teachers taught us—I’ll keep moving and feel good about it.
But I suspect that this season of knee replacement is also a good time to remember that we are all—in the end—beings not doings. That our lives are measured in the depth of our joy in our fellow creatures and the world’s complexity and beauty. And in our efforts to help and celebrate those creatures and the world. And, when I get to thinking—and moving a bit—there are countless ways to do that without being a young whippersnapper.
The lessons of aging well (or living well) don’t quit, do they. How I perceive myself—valid or inVAL’id—remains my choice. Even if or when I become an INvalid in that lacy bed jacket, I can choose to see myself as whole, as a person, as a life, as a spirit. And for sure, as I spend time with contemporaries, I witness what self-possession, self-respect looks like whether or not my friends require “mobility aids.”
The morning after the sesame oil disaster, the pump on my boiler quit. I woke to a cold house. Yet another trying moment when hobbling around seemed twice as frustrating, another insult to my independence. But – but – one call to the plumber on whom I’ve depended for fifteen years not only resulted quickly in a functioning boiler. Todd also gave me latitude to skip the office next time disaster struck and just call him directly. We live in a sea of good hearts who usually take us as we are: INvalid or inVAL’id. Weak or strong or struggling or blooming. ©
