Judy Conlin
Giving up stuff
I don’t like to think I’m old despite the number of candles on my birthday cake having become huge. My mother was born on the first day of spring, so she always said she would never be old. She would always be a spring chicken. I was born in May, so I can’t even use that as an excuse.
What has happened to me is a long process of having to give up stuff. One of the major reasons I began giving up things I loved was because of my bad knees. Let me explain.
My bad knees had many deleterious effects on my life. First, they bowed. Second, they made me walk like a duck. One can overcome these handicaps, but not without losing stuff. What did I lose? I’m here to tell you. I lost:
- My job as a clothing model. No one wants a model who walks like a duck down the runway modeling their clothes.
- The ability to wear shorts or short skirts. No one wants to view deformed legs. Now it’s long dresses or pants.
- Dancing. If you can’t walk, you can’t dance.
- My gorgeous stilettos, then all high heels, then all wedge shoes. I am now wearing perfectly flat shoes or going barefoot.
- Any strenuous exercise classes.
- My yoga classes. I could get down, but I couldn’t get up.
- The ability to walk the dog, mow the lawn or climb a ladder.
- Balance. I began losing my balance and having falls.
- The ability to get up after a fall.
Other things began to happen to me just because of old age. I began to lose:
- My hearing. I only heard half of what was going on.
- My sight. I had to get a large-print Bible.
- My memory. I can’t find things. I can’t remember the names of people I know or things I know. This is most embarrassing.
Just thinking about all this stuff I’m losing or having to give up makes me angry. I tell this to Nurse Judy, my never-helpful alter ego, who, of course, is not going to be any help.
Nurse Judy listens and says one of the first intelligent, helpful things I’ve heard from her.
“Do you have a list of things you still can do or new things you have in place of the things you’ve given up?” she asks.
I am liking being miserable.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got about eight canes that I never use and a little pink walker that I carry in the car but have never used.”
She ignores this negativity.
“What can you still do?” she asks me once again.
“I can live by myself, take care of myself, cook and bake, and take care of my cats.”
“Then why are you complaining? I think there are other things you still can do also,” she prods me.
I think a bit.
“I can still drive, go shopping and go to church. I can still get around.”
“Yes, and?”
“I can be in theater and memorize scripts, even if it takes me a little longer than it used to. I can still write my columns each week. I can still visit people and have people visit me. I can still enjoy a good laugh…”
“Stop,” she says. “You are such a braggart. You are an old, old, falling-apart piece of a woman, but you still have a full life, so stop complaining and spend a little time commiserating with youthful, beautiful me, who must live with such a mess as you.”
I knew she couldn’t remain nice for long, but in all that vitriol there was a bit of common sense, and I am going to cling to that. I am thankful for all that I can still do, and in a way I’m thankful for Nurse Judy, who reminded me of that. Miserable as she usually is, I’m lucky to have her at times.
More later,
Judy
