All is Good

All is good.

Well…that depends on your definition of good.

Actually, I am not hurting most days, which feels like a win worth celebrating with something stronger than ibuprofen.

I have only chipped the paint with my wheelchair in a few lowlying areas. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to suggest a small rodent with attitude has been circling the baseboards.

I cry only when I am tired, which is most of the time. Or when someone mentions my dogs. Or when I cannot reach something. Or find something. Or remember where I put the something I cannot find.

So yes. All is good. More good news is my leg is healing. I will be in the wheelchair for at least two more weeks, after which I will advance to a walker. I enjoy having a clear career path.

The people in the complex have been very welcoming when they see me coming and going to doctor appointments. I am not exactly a social butterfly yet, though. Wheelchairs do not come with wings, and frankly, I would settle for brakes that don’t judge me.

My stepchildren have been wonderful. Truly. Helpful, attentive, and kind. At this point, I am considering putting them on a rotation schedule and issuing name badges.

This week alone I have hosted a physical therapist, three caregivers, a new doctor, a surgeon, two air-conditioning workers, and a steady parade of people who seem to know where things are better than I do. My apartment now operates somewhere between a clinic, a supply depot, and a mildly confused Airbnb.

I remain hopeful that one day I will locate the items I carefully put away in “a safe place,” which apparently translates to “never to be seen again.”

So you see, all is good. I really am doing okay, even though I rotate through sadness, weeping, and laughter like a poorly programmed appliance.

Thus far, I have asked only one person to shoot me. She did not understand English, which turned out to be a blessing for both of us.

If you are feeling overly cheerful, give me a call. I can have you in tears in under five minutes. We can do a proper cry-along. No reservations required.

I believe this is called aging without grace. Still…all is good. Allegedly.

Little 

Voice