Sometimes you can’t win for losing. Like the Good Book says: Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.
I had my hip replaced last Tuesday morning. Feeling fairly perky, and weary of hospital life (seven surgeries including colon cancer in late 2011), I asked my caregivers if I could go home Thursday and do rehab there. That flew in the face of urgent counsel from the Girl in 313. You’re 93! she said. Hence, decided coolness greeted my Thursday return to Woodland Garden.
Kind Cousin Patt sat with me through Thursday night–a hospital-release requirement. My education set in. They say old age is all in the head. Not true! It hit my legs. Removing compression sox for the night took me to the ante-room to hell; donning then in the morning set the devil to grinning.
I made it through Friday night and took to my new lounge chair for the night, now enhanced with a fancy, foam foot-elevator. Around midnight, my bladder whimpered and I eased to a sitting position. As the foot rest lowered, so did the foam elevator, sliding me gently to the floor, nothing hurt nothing but my pride.
No way can I get up. I maneuvered the end table into position, found my cell phone, and reluctantly summoned the Girl in 313. Determining I was not hurt, she gave an I-told-you-so fist pump and phoned the Fire Department (residents are not allowed to aid a fallen person).
A sturdy man and a woman came in their big read truck and skillfully plunked me back in my chair. Smiling sweetly, without a chastening word, the Girl in 313 skipped on home.
I think there’s a lesson there.
Old Grandpa Lloyd