My walking is deteriorating rapidly. I thought since I am losing weight, it would make moving easier. And it has to some extent. But as there becomes less and less of me to heft around, more and more, I’m feeling like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. My legs go one way while my arms go another way. Meanwhile, I watch to see which wall or doorway I need to grab hold of to keep me upright or on course.
The only people in the world who have acknowledged my deterioration in this area are my sons. My youngest son lives with me and seeing me stumble around is just another day in his life. “You OK?” is a phrase he utters a hundred times a day. My husband is vigilant, responsive and never complains. I am grateful and I feel loved.
My two older boys live away from home. Recently, we were together in the NC mountains (at my friend, Nina’s house) after being apart for a couple of months and I think my sons were a little shocked by my decline.
My older boys, I noticed, were never too far away. When there was a stair to climb, a hike to attempt, and darkness to negotiate with, one or both sons were there, asking me if I needed help, extending a hand, or simply grabbing hold. I was grateful and I felt loved.
But the thing is, nobody came out and said, “Gee, you’re getting worse.”
People don’t like to say things like that that.
Still, sometimes I think I need to hear such remarks so I can better avoid avoidance and deny denial.
I wish someone would walk up to me and say, “I can tell it is getting harder for you to walk. I know it must really suck.”
No “I’m sorry” is necessary.
Just affirmation of my reality.