Moving through Space

July 13, 2012

My finger traces the outline of my chin and bumps into a single, wiry hair, long enough to twirl between my thumb and forefinger. Aghast and mirror-less, I hope against hope that it is, at least, not black.

These are the discoveries that sink me these days.

I move slowly through space. My knees are arthritic; some of my toes too. I have a hip replacement and my other hip is cranky.  I’m fit. I swim nearly two miles in less than an hour, five days a week. I walk the dog four to five miles a day. But, I'm 54. I ache more than I used to. At times, I lumber.

Since my mind is always racing, I think I’m moving fast. But I'm not. My brain commands my body to hurry, but my body marches to its own middle-aged rhythm, defiant.

In December, I tripped on a rock and fractured my shoulder. I'd been trying to keep up with the dog, who seems to get taller as I lose height. The rock was buried in the dirt, its edge poking out. In younger days I would have sailed over it. But my hips are stiff and my stride is short. Instead of running, I shuffle. The rock caught my toe (or my toe, the rock) and I went flying, unable to stop the momentum. Midair I thought, where will I land? How should I fall? I worry about falling on my hip, a ceramic contraption attached to a titanium rod that is cemented into my thighbone. Instinctively, I rotated my body so I’d fall on my other side, leading with my left arm to cushion the impact. I landed directly on my elbow and, after registering the first shock of pain, heard a snap.

I screamed. Then I cursed (it was the shoulder that had just healed from too much swimming). Then I cried. The indignity of it all. The feeling of decline.

The dog assumed his post, a tank by my side, stoic and still. My guardian.

Gingerly, I used my good arm to untangle my trembling legs, which were twisted beneath me. Like a baby who is just learning how to stand, I rolled onto one knee then the other, sticking my butt high in the air, unfurling my folded body.

My shoulder throbbed and my arm hung heavily. I steadied it with my opposite hand, around which I’d wrapped the leash.  

We inched our way home, the pooch and I. He knew better than to trot.