As a new year is just hours away, I sit here feeling led to write about what is not all that fun to write about. My last post, written only weeks ago, told the story of an adventure, a call, something I have been about and pursuing for a couple of years...walking the Camino. Today I am feeling an angry, frustrated humility as my left foot feels re-injured and my body is experiencing a new level of age-related issues. The reality of my Camino seems to be slipping from my fingers.
All this is happening against a backdrop of assisting Aunt V's move from an assisted-living life into a long term care style of "living" following her stroke. This brings me squarely into the memories of my mom's last years. The reality of seeing the drain-swirling aspects of many people's end-of-life scenarios hits me in a mental tsunami kind of way.
You see, I understand that such a confession is not faith-filled, not positive-thinking approved. But if I am to be authentic, I feel it necessary to discuss this now, in the valley of the shadow, rather than waiting for it all to pass and only then gloriously writing about the 'victory of weathering a life storm'.
The foot will be examined by a Dr in just a few days. It will be what it is and I will do what I can. The other vague ageing issues I am currently feeling are at least in part from ending all exercise (walking, swimming) until I get the doc's diagnosis. Stiff, sore neck issues have been with me for weeks. They seem to be caused be sleeping position/pillow issues but then I really don't know. Subtle balance irregularities, sleep disturbances, more frequent inability to find the right word or remember the right name, forgetting where I put or left things and the very face of the guy on the other side of the mirror all whisper about how much sand has drifted into the bottom of my hourglass.
All this is GREATLY exacerbated by helping Aunt V. I have a front row seat. Watching the steep downward slide of this once vital, seemingly bullet proof little lady is so not f-u-n. She wisely and proactively moved from her townhouse to an assisted-living life. Although at the time it didn't seem necessary to me, it proved a right move for her. Unlike my mom, V enjoyed a couple of years of independent living and thrived within a supportive community. But alas, assisted-living is only authorized for the relatively able-bodied. Her stroke, followed by hospital, followed by transitional care rehabilitation all resulted in a body and a mind no longer suitable for her own, independent apartment. Observing all of this at such an intimate distance while being 75 myself just feels.... toxic. Sorry!
My experience with long term care is mostly ugly. Although caregivers work mightily to put a happy face on this, the last stop before meeting Jesus, for many it is a sad season of life. (At least as observed from my vantage point. I can only hope the residents do not share my horror!) Each day I enter a world of super slow-mo citizens with amazing life stories now housed in a mere shell of what once was. It is a land of wheelchairs, hoyer lifts, lousy food and adult diapers. And, if that is not enough to suck the vibrancy of life right out of you, the monthly expense for this assault on humanity is astronomical. It is virtually guaranteed to quickly drain almost every last penny of an average person's life savings leaving one with a maximum of $3,000 and enrollment in the welfare system. The dignity of life gets so deeply buried under all of these indecencies that walking into the facility drains my energy within mere minutes! (Lord, please give me eyes to see all of this in a better way!)
So here's the deal Santiago: your foot seems to be betraying you and your plans, your body appears to be relentlessly marching toward a new level of diminishment and your season of life has you assisting a dear lady as she "jumps" the last hurdles of the race. "Your honor, my client is not enduring these things well, and wishes to enter a counter suit. He's just not sure how to proceed..."
As I look up to the horizon in the hopes of brighter skies and less turbulence, a new challenge looms just ahead: Nat's surgery is set for 2/6. The drum beat only seems to grow louder as my fingernails dig into the granite-faced cliff. Jerry, you hated this picture, but I can only say it surely feels appropriate in the corner I find myself temporarily (permanently?) painted into.
Dear Lord Jesus, please take the wheel!
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