My World With Words

I just found out that the attorney who had been the most help to me during a period of legal woes a few years ago died in a car accident. They think he had a diabetic seizure and lost control of his car. The accident actually happened some time ago, but I hadn’t needed his services for awhile and since I’d moved the letter that was sent didn’t reach me.

He was young and this shouldn’t have happened. although I know with diabetes it can and does. Still, you don’t expect someone who exuded a gentle strength and confidence to die so soon. I was crushed to hear about it.

I fear diabetes. I have a sweet tooth and I know that can spell disaster for so many reasons. I also fear it for my mom, who, at the age of 87, thinks nothing of having a lunch of Milky Way bars and raspberries (which turned out to be a bad combination). If I got diabetes, I would do my best to manage it. If my mom got it, she wouldn’t manage it at all. That’s where her mind is at now.

Which brings us to another issue that’s been difficult for me. Last month I spent a week with my mom, who lives in assisted living 650 miles from me. It was a good week, and ever since, I’ve wanted to move closer to her. While she is well cared for, she has little opportunity to get out of the building she lives in. She has friends but no interest in the social activities the facility provides. She’s bored a lot of the time.

Frankly, she can’t take a whole lot of activity. We went out on errands almost every day that I was there, and while the trips were short, she was exhausted by the end of the week. There were things we weren’t able to accomplish in the time I was there, and things we can’t accomplish from a distance.

This whole end-of-life aging thing has been difficult for me. I want to be closer to her to spend what time she has left together. It isn’t possible right now, but as soon as I can, I’m moving. Of course the logistics of that overwhelm me at times.

It’s a bear getting older. But it beats dying young.

Image Credits: Candy © Steve Cukrov–stock.adobe.com; Hands © Dmytro–stock.adobe.com

You don’t see as many pictures of Mimi as you do of Walter –but that’s not because I love her any less. She’s just always hiding and only comes out when she’s ready to snuggle. It’s hard to take a picture of a cat when you’re snuggling with her, but this time I caught her in a more accessible hiding spot. As you can see, she’s a little unsure of the camera.  (Please ignore the horrible paint job on the wall behind her. I rent.)

Image Credits: Cesar Cat © Belinda O, Paws in Heart, © bigstockphoto.com,

When I was in high school, girls who were academically ahead of the curve were told not to take typing. “If they find out you can type,” we were told, “you’ll always be a secretary.” Well, I had no choice in the matter. I was out sick for the first month of school and fell too far behind in my French class. I had to drop it and replace it with another class, and the only option I was given was typing.

Of course I was a month behind there, too, and never really did catch up. Still, I’m grateful for the experience. Personal computers came around sometime while I was in college, and  you need to know how to type to succeed on those.

I’m frequently shocked into realizing how old I am by memories like that one. Most of my co-workers grew up with PCs, and learning how to type came with the territory. Not long ago I was reminiscing with a friend my age about how it was before cell phones. Okay, not only cell phones, but things that are also antiques today–answering machines and caller id on your land line. When the phone rang, you answered it, because you didn’t know who it might be and there was a chance it was important. If you didn’t get to the phone in time, there was no way of knowing who called, no message to check, nothing. You just hoped they’d call back.

I’m flying out to see my dad this fall, and I know things have changed in the thirteen years since I last boarded an airplane. Boarding passes on your smart phone? They scan a code? My dad was telling me about this (he just took a trip to see my nephew graduate) and I couldn’t picture it. I do remember you have to take off your shoes, and this time hopefully I’ll be better prepared with the type of shoe I’m wearing. Although if I wear a slip-on, then I’ll be in my bare feet, so that’s not happening.

Things are changing faster and faster. Today I heard a doomsday prediction about AI. I don’t think I’m ready for the future, but it’s going to happen, so I’d better adjust.

Image Credits: Typewriter © MIGUEL GARCIA SAAVED–stock.adobe.com; Telephone © The Toidi–stock.adobe.com

When I was nineteen, I broke my wrist at a church camp. It was the middle of winter in California, and the camp was in the Sierras, so there was plenty of snow and ice on the ground. I was dutifully walking out of the chapel, Bible in my right hand, when I slipped and fell on a patch of ice, the full force of my fall landing on my left wrist. It was a gruesome break.

It took an hour to get to the small hospital at the bottom of the mountain, an hour waiting for the doctor on call to show up, an eternity to get the bone set, and another hour back. It was the middle of the night, and being heavily sedated, I slept the whole way. When I woke up, I was in a great deal of pain, and the painkillers they gave me barely touched it.

That was only the beginning of the ordeal with my wrist. It never set right, and the doctor recommended surgery to get it straightened out. My parents were going through divorce then, and somehow my broken wrist was not a priority. Okay, I was not a priority. So I suffered with the pain of the wrist for months before it finally healed in a malformed way. To this day I have bouts of pain with that wrist, where bumps appear and it hurts just to write or type. This isn’t the typical weather-related pain you feel with a broken bone. I get that, too. This is much more severe, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve been to enough orthopedic surgeons to know that.

Yet I’m grateful, in a way, for this deformity. It has taught me patience and how to push through everyday activities while in pain without complaining. If I’m at work, I do get quiet, and co-workers will sometimes comment on that. I’m honest with them, and I’ll show them the bumps, and that’s usually enough information. They understand. They have their own pain.

It’s also caused me to reflect on how difficult my parent’s divorce was on the whole family. We were fractured, each of us living his or her own life, without much regard for what was happening with the others. I was as guilty of that as the next person. Over the years I’ve reconciled myself to that reality, and it’s given me the freedom to rebuild the relationships that I lost during that time.

The pain in our lives can leave us broken or help make us whole. At least, get us a little closer to whole. I struggle with some of the pain in my life (I’ve written about this before) and I’m still waiting to see how it will help me. But eventually, I’ll make sure it does.

Image Credits: https://stock.adobe.com/3D person falling ©Anatoly Maslennikov–stock.adobe.com; Pine trees © Mimi Art Smile–stock.adobe.com.