Time
I finished a long workout at the gym yesterday and felt great.When I started walking back to my car, I felt a sharp pain in my ankle. Not soreness. Pain.
I couldn't figure out what I'd done, because I'd had no discomfort at any point during the workout. I thought it was transitory, but it wasn't. It stayed.
When I woke up this morning, I tested it out and still felt quite a bit of pain. An ankle is particularly tough for me, because the way I deal with sciatica is to--among other things--sit less. I write standing up, too.
I put on a heavy-duty ankle brace on, just for protection. As I was walking to the kitchen, I realized I was limping and walking very slowly. At that moment, I had a strange reaction.
I was intensely angry.
For twenty minutes or so, I was angry, which is incredibly uncommon for me. I don't get mad about much, unless it's bullying assholes screwing up the country. This, though, took me for a ride.
I've been watching Mom 94.11 get older. C's mom is also over 90. They both use walkers now, which is the standard for almost everyone over 90.
It's necessary, but also hard. A walker shrinks your life so much. The world in which you exist gets smaller and smaller. Mom would never admit it bothers her, but she's a strong, proud, hard woman (anyone who grew up poor in the Depression is hard), and it can't be easy.
Part of me is angry that life diminished her that way.
Now I'm so conscious of fighting that for as long as I can that even a limp sets off my radar. I didn't understand until today.
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