Acutely Aware

I have suddenly become acutely aware that I am aging. Here are my signs:

I can't see. A few years ago, I had great eyesight! Now, I fear leaving the house without my glasses. I have a pair in my car for emergencies. I have a pair in my purse. I have a pair in my bathroom, by my bed, in the kitchen and at my desk. I cannot see menus in restaurants because they only provide me candlelight to see by! (That ticks me, just for the record . . . is that really necessary? And, the nicer the restaurant, the more dim the lighting, which is funny, because typically only older, less vision-enabled people are the ones who can afford to eat in them. TURN UP THE LIGHTS!)

I can't hear. Except in movies and in my son's car, and my husband snoring. Maybe it's because all of those are extremely loud (sorry babe, I still love you!). I used to be able to hear a pin drop. Now I can't hear much at all and find myself leaning in, which only makes people think I'm a great listener, because apparently great listeners "lean in." But probably, great listeners are just aging and can't hear as well. Whatever. I can't hear.

I can't sleep late. SEEEERRRIOUSLYYYYY. This is frustrating. It does not matter what time I go to bed. I cannot sleep late. I wake up at the crack of dawn. Even if I want to sleep late. Even if I have nothing to do the next day. I cannot sleep late. Oh, and also, I can't sleep thru the night. I wake up all night long. Often to go to the bathroom (sorry, TMI?), but even if I don't drink anything after a certain time, and whether or not I have caffeinated coffee, I can't sleep thru the night. Arrgh.

I can't remember things. My short term memory is shot. If someone gives me a phone number, it is sooooo taxing to my brain to hang on to those 7-10 digits for any length of time at all! My long term memory is great, which is why I can remember old stories, but because my short term memory is shot, I can't remember that I have told those stories 12 times!! I am giving you all permission to hold up two fingers as a sign to me that says "I've heard it CJ."

Oh and there are plenty of other not so pleasant signs of aging. As Solomon says in Ecclesiastes, "the doors on the street are shut" (giving reference to what he eats and what he expels . . . I know, way too much information!)

Ahhhhh, aging. But in my aging, there are things I can do that I couldn't do when I was in the summer of my life. I can laugh at my own mistakes. I don't take myself and others quite so seriously. I enjoy life more. I'm okay with not being perfect. I'm okay with not having a perfect body (some days), perfect kids, a perfect marriage, a perfect life. I'm okay with not being the sharpest crayon in the box. I'm okay with mixing my metaphors and my "sayings" (because I think the expression is the "brightest" crayon in the box . . . I never get those right.)

All that to say, I suppose aging is better than the alternative. But I sure wish I wasn't having to wear Mr. Tarbutton's glasses to be able to see to type this! (I couldn't find my own!)

Dragging Myself Up

I went back to the orthopedist. It's been two months since I broke my arm. The first month was not so great. No bone growth. So much pain. I seriously thought I would never get off the drugs for the pain. But another month passed. And yeah! My bones are growing, finally!!

That is the good news. The bad news is kinda two-fold. One part is that I still have to wear my robocop brace. For another MONTH! The second part is that because I am healing, I get to start physical therapy. Well, sort of physical therapy. I have this pulley contraption thing that hooks over the door. It has two handles. I hold one handle in my broken arm hand, and pull on the other handle with my good arm.

I literally am dragging my arm up over my head. It hurts like heck. But I do want to get well, and I do want to be able to do things for myself again, so I have to bear the pain, if I want to get back to normal.

All that to say, I'm healing. Slowly. But healing. And I am grateful for that.

I Wish I Was Making This Up

Today I had a lymphatic massage. I was skeptical. I'm not gonna lie. And Sharon, if you're reading this, don't take it personally, the massage was amazing. But here is the basic premise. I have a broken arm. Anytime you are broken or injured (torn muscle, sprained ankle, etc.) lymphatic fluids build up in that area causing swelling. So, back to the lymphatic massage.

This woman from my church is massage therapist (Sharon) and she tells me about this massage technique that will reduce the swelling in my broken arm. (It's been broken for almost 6 weeks, so you'd think the swelling would be gone, but not so.) So, I go in and she tells me that what she is going to do is massage my clavicle and my forearm and elbow, pushing (basically) the lymphatic fluids toward my armpit so they can be sweated out through the lymph glands located there.

Again, I was skeptical. But in the midst of the massage, I can start to feel, yes FEEL the fluids moving. My fingers started tingling and suddenly I could move my arm in ways I haven't been able to since I broke it. How crazy is that?

All that to say, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that God would make our body in such a way that something as seemingly insignificant as lymphatic fluids could be so cool. And, I would also like to say, I am a fan of lymphatic massage. But I probably won't be talking about it over dinner. It sounds gross.

Have I Mentioned I'm Broken

I broke my left arm about 3 or so weeks ago. It shouldn't hurt anymore but it does. That ticks me off. I told my doctor that I am ready to be at the i-am-irritated-because-my-arm-is-broken stage, but find myself still at the i-am-in-constant-pain-because-my-arm-is-broken stage.

I've come a long way in 3 short weeks. I should be thankful. In the beginning, my good friend Traci had to bathe me. Talk about humility . . . for both of us. We are both so modest. And, she's skinny and I'm not. So sadly, I thought a lot more about my cellulite and saggy breasts than I did about my broken arm. I tried to hide myself with my good arm, which made washing myself difficult, and Traci tried to hand me shampoo and body wash, while keeping her eyes closed or turning her head away. We laughed a lot about our modesty. It was comical.

And you know what else? I have come to really value having two good arms. There are seriously things that you don't realize it takes two good arms for. The first, is blow drying your hair. Takes two arms. Every other morning, Traci or Kim comes over and blow dries my hair. It is surprising how challenging operating a round brush can be one handed.

Opening a bottle of water. Takes two arms. Pulling toilet paper off the roll. Takes two arms. Pulling up your pants after figuring out the toilet paper thing. Takes two arms. Putting on your own bra. Takes two arms. Carrying your plate and your drink to the table at the same time. Takes two arms. Putting on your own seatbelt. Two arms. Holding your toothbrush AND putting the toothpaste on it. Two arms. Folding clothes. Two arms.

Other challenges. Shaving your arm pits. I'm right handed. I can't shave under my right arm because my left arm is broken, and I can't raise it more than about 6 inches. And I have no use of my left arm whatsoever. So that requires me to shave under my right arm with my right hand. Try it (those of you who shave your arm pits). You'll see what I mean. Putting on deodorant is a similar challenge. Pulling up the covers on your bed, also not easy.

All that to say, I'm sick of having a broken arm. I know I'm whining. There are plenty of people in the world with one arm, and they function just fine. I am just not one of them.