Shaping Up

   The running gags in the later decades of our marriage are that when people ask how long we have been married, Reed tells how many years, but adds, 50 with the chill factor. Mine is that I am giving him 50 years to shape up or I'm out of here. We are joking of course, when we married at age 20, we knew we were in for a life sentence. But actually, after 48 years of marriage, Reed has begun to shape up. I think part of the reason is because he is cutting back at work. I cannot really call what he is now doing retirement, if I tried to throw a retirement party for him, he would probably be too busy to come. Reed is working on airplanes as much as ever, just different airplanes, and in different hangars. The other change is, now that he is no longer a director of maintenance, in charge of both aircraft and hangar, he has begun to notice more things involved with our home/hangout. Fortunately, he is not one of those husbands I had been warned about who retire and decide to become the household manager and "improve" how his wife has been doing things for decades. It is more that since jet maintenance is no longer the continual subroutine playing in his brain, he has begun to notice other things. 

   Things like--the dishwasher needs unloaded. He was always willing to unload it when I asked or when he heard me doing it, but he never noticed it on his own. He has not only learned where most things go, but sometimes puts them in a more logical place than where I was putting them. Similarly, he always helped clear the table after dinner, but it was mostly a one trip effort. Then he would wander off to do something else regardless of how much was still on the table. Now he keeps at it until things are put away, even at holidays when, in the 40 to 60 minutes to it took me to get leftovers put away and clean up the kitchen, our guests had finished visiting and were ready to leave. I like feeding people, but getting to hear what is happening in other people's lives, feeds me. After everyone said goodbye and left our recent Easter dinner, Reed went into the kitchen to finish cutting the meat off the ham bone, load remaining items in the dishwasher, and hand wash the roaster and pans. This is usually my least favorite part and he could tell I was tired from all the food prep the previous day.

   Another way he is shaping up is the discovery, after 48 years of marriage, that Reed knows how to vacuum! He actually does a more thorough job than I do. When he was working, I was lucky if Reed made it home in time to set up chairs and tray tables for our twice monthly 7 p.m. small group. Now he tries to leave the airport at 4 so he will have time to vacuum before setting up. Who knows what hidden talents I may discover about my husband in the future?

   Our 50th anniversary will be in June 2027. Plans for it depend on what kind of shape my ankle is in since it is difficult to travel without walking. After our anniversary, Reed will have to revise his chill factor joke to 55 years, but I am not going to raise the 50 year deadline for him to shape up. Whenever and wherever we choose to get out of here for that milestone, we will do it together.

 

 

A Bone to Pick

     I am thankful for orthopedic surgeons. Having had both knees, and now a shoulder replaced, has added mobility and reduced pain that would have crippled me before artificial joints were available. Nevertheless, I have a bone to pick with them. I did not meet an actual orthopedic surgeon until I was 24, though I really should have before because my left kneecap had been dislocating since I twisted it badly when I was nine. Although having a kneecap go awol while walking was extremely painful, since it always went back into place, this was not considered worth the cost of a doctor visit at the time. Besides, my body adapted by keeping my left leg from fully straightening so the kneecap was less likely to slip, and making my right leg compensate for everything my left leg could not do. When it finally dislocated so badly I could not walk without my leg bent 30 degrees, I saw an orthopedic surgeon. The operation was called a patellar transfer, which involves moving the patellar tendon and stapling it in place. The good news is, it fixed the problem, the bad news is, at that time laparoscopic surgery was in its infancy and my surgeon was not comfortable doing surgery with an infant for an instrument, so I wound up with a nine inch scar that looks like an ugly, white caterpillar crawling up my left knee.

    But that is not the bone I have to pick, it was that the doctor was so convinced the cause of my problem was my female anatomy and not the childhood twisting episode, he almost operated on the wrong knee. Fortunately, the hospital had me do my own betadine scrub before surgery. And since, when he opened the skin for the operation, my kneecap popped off, I hope he clued in that operating on the wrong knee would have left me without a leg to stand on.

    Another non-funny bone experience happened in my early 30's. After months of lower back pain that was not sharp, but nagging, I saw an orthopedic doctor. He, of course, ordered an x-ray, told me I did not need surgery, to live with the pain, and that for good measure I should probably give up the nurse aide job that I had just certified for. Though my medical training was limited, I thought there was probably some middle ground between those two options. I had never been to a chiropractor before and didn't know what I thought of them, but I had a friend who worked as office manager for a chiropractor so gave him a try. After two adjustments, my back pain was gone.

    Last year, when my ankle rolled and sprained so badly I was willing to hobble my way to orthopedic urgent care, I got an x-ray, a loose, heavy boot that I couldn't walk in, and was sent on my way with the unsurprising news that I did not need surgery. I tried both physical therapy and laser on my ankle, but had to discontinue when my shoulder pain won the award for most annoying body part. Having had fair results from two previous cortisone shots in my shoulder, I decided to skip the P.A. potluck and schedule an appointment for an injection from an orthopedic doctor who had a good reputation. He said I did not need the x-ray guided procedures I had at the hospital before because he knew exactly where to put the injection. He did not. The cortisone missed the joint, went into my bloodstream and made my arm and chest red hot, not in a good way. 

    Now back to the ankle portion of my two-for-one joint special, though the pain and swelling have improved in the last year, the stability and muscle strength of my favorite leg have not returned. I have been stuck wearing winter ankle boots or high top tennies for a year. I cannot step on a pebble and know my foot will support me. The only way I can walk on uneven ground is barefoot and, even then, I walk on the outside edge of my foot. For some reason, I did not bother going back to orthopedics. I went to a podiatrist who both my physical therapist and family doctor recommended. He ordered x-rays, asked why no one had done an MRI and if my foot  popped when it sprained, a symptom the orthopedic P.A. totally dismissed. So the podiatrist is doing surgery on my ankle next month. I may be unstable in many ways, but my ankle does not have to be part of the problem. It will be a long recovery, and I hope in the end I won't have a bone to pick with podiatrists either. 

  

 

 

 

 

 

The Cross

     Although I was listening to, and moved by, our church Good Friday service, I found myself slipping into poem mode. I was thinking about the contrast between the sanitized, religious symbol, cross seen in our culture, with the crude instrument of torture it was in Roman culture. The polished pine cross displayed in the front of our sanctuary is nothing like the gruesome one on which Jesus displayed His love.  

 

The Cross 

 

It was not shiny and silver

like the one hanging around my neck,

or pristine and polished

like the one in the church auditorium.

 

It was ugly and bloody and brutal.

It is beautiful and blessed and healing. 

It was the symbol of guilt and suffering and shame.

It is the symbol of cleansing and sacrifice and victory.

 

It was an instrument of death in long ago Rome.

It marks the entrance to heaven, our true home, 

and to the Lord who loved us to death

and, through His power, back to life again.

 

The Cross. 

 

4/4/26 

  

 

 

 

 

Standing By

   I have been contemplating Easter, especially the crucifixion. I often wonder Lord . . . 

 

Would I have stood near you at the cross 

in your hour of need?

Loving you, but surrounded

by those who hate you

a woman, vulnerable, afraid. 

Seeing-- 

 your body beaten, bloody, torn 

Smelling--

 the stench of blood, sweat, urine

Hearing--

 the jeers of persecutors, 

 the groans of suffering

 the sobs of such few faithful. 

 

I fear I would not.

And you, as always, reassure me

that I am standing by you now,

in the time you have chosen for me. 

And that is all you ask of me. 

 

           4/1/26