How do I love being a shut-in? Let me count the ways.
Since undergoing hip surgery on Sept. 29, I’ve found myself sitting at home at the mercy of others. Being waited on hand and foot isn’t all bad, but it goes against my proclivity to do things for myself.
I can convey myself about the house with the help of a walker or crutches, but my movements are limited by the 90-degree rule. That means I can’t bend from the waist beyond 90 degrees without threatening to pull my newly-mended hip out of joint.
So, when I see something on the floor and am motivated to reach down for it – as I did the very first morning after I got home from the hospital – I have to stop myself and consider my options. Either leave it there, ask someone else to pick it up or reach instead for my “best friend.”
My best friend these days (and I say this with the fear of offending any number of people who may have felt the honored title belonged to them) is a long-armed claw with a gun-like handle. I can use it to pick up stuff, to pull up articles of clothing that normally require a tug with the hands or to threaten little kids who think an old man wearing white tights is funny.
OK, I guess the tights deserve an explanation. Besides the little-known fact that I enjoy cross dressing, I have to wear the support hose to help keep blood clots from forming. I’m also taking daily injections of blood thinner for the same purpose – and, yes, I give myself the shots.
So, if by chance the nearly impossible occurs and I drop the needle on the floor, my best friend will pick it up, dust it off and hand it to me. No harm, no foul.
One of my greatest fears is dropping my best friend on the floor with nobody around to pick him up.
Even though I’ve learned to be pretty much independent – for an invalid – there are some things I just can’t do for myself. One of those tasks is to put on and take off those dastardly hose.
It’s something too difficult for my best friend. Even my cousin Tom Allen, a strapping 6-footer who has been helping me when wife Ginny is at work, has to tug and grunt and strain to get the confounded stockings up. MBF doesn’t have a prayer of getting that job done.
Another chore for human hands other than my own is changing my wound dressing. Were it on my anterior flank, I could easily do it myself. But the surgery required posterial entry, thus leaving the foot-long gash just beyond my sight and reach.
I guess by the time I don’t need the hose or the dressing, I’ll be back on my feet, bending and stretching and doing everything I’m used to doing. In the meantime, I have to thank those who have had to wait on me hand and foot.
Larry Penkava, who has written Now and Then since 1994, appreciates all the cards, messages and “care packages” during his time off.
