One day you will wake up and a crucial part of who you are will be gone. In my case, it was no catastrophic illness or traumatic injury. It was just my knees. Just my knees. Where I had spent the best part of my adult life traversing the globe in search of – what? – big buildings? – small lives? – a touch of grace? – Now, I struggled to teeter to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I had become an old woman in an instant of wincing pain.
Barely seventy, I thought I still had ample time to indulge my peripatetic nature. After all, I had many friends in their seventies and beyond who were still active. But severe arthritis? Me? Surely this was a mistake. But no; here I sit, practicing my doctor’s RICE method of Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. And bemoaning my destiny. It will happen to you as well.
Some would say God has a greater plan for us, that perhaps He is reaching down from above to put on the brakes and ensure that I spend more time on my writing. But no god of mine would do that. He would want me roaming, digging hand over hand like a dog, furiously uncovering new observations and new truths. He would want me to be happy doing what I was meant to do. So, this is no divine intervention. This is a cruel cosmic snag. And I meant to surpass its reach in short order.
Today is Saturday. I should be on my way to the coast to walk in the waves. Or shop for exciting new cat toys for the boys. Or at least drop in at the travel agency to browse the cruise brochures. Instead, I am sitting in my recliner, gingerly wrapping my knee with an ACE bandage and contemplating another day of rest and TV. It’s maddening. I don’t want to do this. I’m not ready to retire from life.
My daughter tells me I am impatient. She says I should just relax and give it time, that my knee will get better. But I know that no matter how much better it gets, the pain will always be there lurking right around the corner, waiting to strike me down. Now that I have reached this pinnacle of wretched old age, I will never be perfectly free again. I will always worry.
I know. I should count my blessings. I have a lovely daughter, and a satisfying writing career, and means enough to ensure my selfish comforts. Bah. I might as well be dead. There. I said it. But you don’t understand, do you? You can get up and walk to the refrigerator when you want a cool drink or something to snack on. You’re still young enough to depend on your legs, your eyes, your ears, your hands, your mouth, and all those other fallible body parts that work to ensure your continued well-being. You haven’t hit an operational snag yet. Believe me when I tell you that you will.
You must never take your mind or your body for granted because they will betray you. I am a living example of fate’s cruelty. But enough of being a victim, I tell myself. I can still hobble along, can still see sunsets and animals and graceful trees swaying under gentle winds. I can still taste victory in a life well-lived. And that is enough for any woman.
I tell my daughter, do it while you can, whatever it is. I’m not sure she believes me but she says she does. I tell her the time will come when she will live in her memories alone and she must not be disappointed by their bounty. True, she lives well and seems to heed my advice but how am I to be sure? Could there be more for her? Could she step up to the plate and knock one over the wall if she so chose? I have to trust. After all, I will be long gone when she reaches my current age and sees my wisdom for perhaps the first time.
As for myself, I will trudge on. I will do what I can and supplant experience with recollections, hopes, and unrealized dreams. I will continue to write and enjoy the company of my fellow scribblers over tea and good intentions. I will periodically meet my recalcitrant older brother for lunches where we can stew about ancient childhood traumas. I will put on my old lady glasses and work the daily crossword. All of these things I can and will continue to do even as I make plans for trips that likely as not will fail to materialize. I’ll fill in the remainder of my calendar with doctor’s appointments and pointless trips to the grocery store. I’ll seek out sunny days if only for the benefit of my houseplants.
And I will be content.
Linda Caradine is an award-winning Oregon writer. Her memoir, Lying Down with Dogs, was a finalist for the 2024 Independent Authors Network Book of the Year prize. She has just finished writing a new novel of psychological suspense. You can contact her at www.LindaCaradine.com.
