Middle Age

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Solitary Confinement

My middle-aged body is slowly wearing out from wear and tear. I had a triple arthrodoisis (major foot surgery that fuses three joints in the foot) three months ago to fix arthritis and pain which was limiting my ability to walk. I was not allowed to bear weight for 10 weeks so I got around on a knee scooter. It was my right foot, so driving was out. While a nifty invention, my hands hurt from leaning on the scooter, my knee was chafed and my back hurt. To use my teenage daughter’s favorite phrase, I was a hot mess.

Not being a kvetch by nature, I was sick of myself and pretty sure my housemates were sick of me too. Being a stay-at-home mother, I run the household and keep the trains running on time. Since it wasn’t emergency surgery, I was able to plan ahead for rides, meals and help around the house. To my surprise, the household ran relatively smoothly as I directed family life from the couch.

I would be remiss if I didn’t appreciate that my confinement wasn’t life threatening or permanent, for which I was grateful. So while I had anxiety about the surgery and recovery I was mindful that I wasn’t “sick” which helped keep it all in perspective. I had surgery, chemotherapy and radiation for breast cancer in 2010 so I was well aware what an existential crisis feels like. This was merely a big, fat nuisance.

My dignity definitely took a hit. Dependent on my husband to get in and out of the shower, I developed a new appreciation for my privacy and independence.  Our morning ablution schedule became intertwined. It became a joking power move where I would meekly ask, “Could I take a shower now?” and he would bark like a drill sargent, “You will shower when I tell you you can shower.”

Obviously, a sense of humor was key. Otherwise how could I tolerate hoisting myself up and down the stairs on my rear end or on my knees? My sister came from out of town to help nurse me and found my scooter riding so hilarious that she made a video. Our friends found it amusing and I wondered aloud if it could go viral. My kids assured me that it wasn’t that funny. Now, if I had fallen over, that would have been a different story.

I felt a little disconnected from my kids and my husband. Without the parallel talk time while driving and my going to bed early, they were left to deal with the logistics of their lives. On the one hand, it was a welcome break from all of the mental and physical juggling. On the other hand, I felt a little left out. As I recovered and could be more engaged, the kids resumed being normal teenagers and taking me for granted. I took comfort in remembering something Lisa Damour wrote in a 2016 article in the New York Times:  “Happily, the quality parenting of a teenager may sometimes take the form of blending into the background like a potted plant.” On a knee scooter or on the couch, I could excel at being a potted plant.

I developed a whole new appreciation for physical therapists. I saw the surgeon only sporadically so the physical therapist really was my cheerleader and expert regarding my progress. Mine was a guy named Ken, a few years older than me. I looked forward to my twice weekly sessions. During the time when I couldn’t bear weight, I would lie on the table while he massaged my foot, iced it and used electrical stimulation – all without asking anything in return (other than payment.) I could dump all of my frustrations about my recovery on him and joked that he became my best friend.

I tried not to be a kvetch but I know I wasn’t always successful.  I actually developed callouses on my hands from gripping and pushing down on the scooter and they would fall asleep at night so that I began to worry that I was developing carpal tunnel syndrome. I felt like I was playing a bodily game of “Whack-A-Mole,” fixing one problem as another one popped up.  I confess to having a pity party or two. I am human, after all. My girlfriends were great shleppers and listeners, helping me keep my sanity. I was grateful that my confinement was in the age of Netflix. Don Draper and his crew of “Mad Men” kept me company as did the wacky antics of the gang at Dunder Mifflin in Scranton.

The day came when I was given the green light to drive. I hopped in the car and headed to the bank with the windows down and the radio blasting. I felt like a 16 year old with a new license. The freedom was invigorating. My fantasy was shattered when I hobbled through the parking lot, like the middle age, debilitated woman I was. But in the car, and sometimes in my mind, I’m 16!

Recovery is complete and now the serious rehabilitation begins. Ken, once my masseuse and psychotherapist, is now my slave driver. “You mean I have to get off the table and actually do stuff now?” I asked him. I long for the days of passive physical therapy. Was the surgery worth it? Time will tell. Determined to shed my crutches and resume my active middle age, I will push forward and back out into the world. One step at a time.

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Get a Little Uncomfortable

I started my professional life as a social worker in a hospital and after several fulfilling years I stayed home to raise my kids. Little did I know how much my previous work as a hospital social worker would help me raise children, particularly my son with a Jewish genetic disease who has many medical problems. It gave me a unique insight into both sides of the hospital bed – as the helpful professional and the hands-on caregiver.

As the years passed I had little interest in returning to social work as a career. I had enough problems of my own – I didn’t feel like hearing other peoples’ problems for a living. Sure, I like to think of myself as a good friend and am happy to offer my unprofessional advice when asked. But I am content to quietly deal with my own stuff while grabbing happiness when I can.

After my mother died I started writing, something I had not done before. My sister encouraged me to start a blog so I gave it a shot. A friend who is a professional writer and teacher suggested that maybe it was my mother’s legacy, as my grief over her loss led me to put my thoughts to paper. My mother was an incredibly thoughtful and kind person; I loved the idea of helping others through my writing as a way to honor her memory. The response to my blog was very positive. It turned out to be a great way for me to work through thoughts and issues that I grappled with and it seemed that people liked hearing what I had to say.

I am inspired by people I know who take chances and try new things in middle age, who fully embrace the saying that life happens outside of your comfort zone. People I know and admire have done really interesting things: started a Jewish acapella group, volunteered to be the president of an overnight camp board of directors, took a stand-up comedy class, became a hospice volunteer, and a volunteer advocate for children in the court system, became a health coach/nutrition expert, and a mentor to a teenage mother hoping to complete a college degree. Another friend who has been a lawyer for years is now working towards becoming a high school English teacher. Who knew that a friend and I would become leaders as part of a international women’s’ trip to Israel, helping women to rediscover their Judaism and connection to the land of Israel?

My writing led me to explore storytelling after my husband turned me on to a podcast called “The Moth” on which people tell true stories without notes. I had little public speaking experience but on a whim, I signed up for a storytelling class in the spring. It was in downtown D.C. and I knew no one in the class. The final class was a small performance for friends and family. I loved it so much that I decided to put my name in a hat at a Moth “Story Slam” in DC., which is an open-mic storytelling competition open to anyone with a five-minute story to share on the night’s theme.

I had one of my teachers coach me and I felt well prepared. I arrived that evening, put my name in the hat and then almost had a panic attack as the theater was filling up with hundreds of people. What had I done? I sat in the audience, not knowing if my name would be called. After the first story, my name was announced…show time! I bounded up on stage and told my story. It was terrifying and exhilarating but I was thrilled when it was over and felt so proud of myself. Out of my comfort zone indeed. It was a great place to be.

Here is the story I told that night. I didn’t actually win although I came in a close second. I felt like a winner anyway. The theme of the night was “Karma.” Turns out being uncomfortable isn’t always so bad….I highly recommend it.