Rust and Duct Tape

Before I get going on rust and duct tape (and no, this is not a how-to repair your beat-up '67 Chevy), I have to share the darned good news.

No, no word from the editor. Not that good.

But, as I lamented back in Housekeeping!, I needed someone who speaks Lakota and has an Internet connection. And lo, the clouds have parted, the ray of light has shined down, and Jan Ullrich at the Lakota Language Consortium has agreed to translate my dialogue!

So, let me just say a big ol' THANKS to Jan and the entire LLC for all their hard work and friendly helpfulness! I am going to sleep a whole lot better tonight knowing that I won't be honking off a whole tribe of Lakotas for brutalizing their language. And feel free to check out the link to their site and share the love. They're busy people trying to preserve a language. All help is appreciated!

Now, onto rust and duct tape. I don't generally like to talk about real personal stuff, like my health, on this blog because (a) once I get going, I get whiny and (b) no one else cares, unless you're a medical professional being paid to at least pretend you care or you're my mother (Hi, Mom!).

I tell the myriad of medical professionals in my life that I'm being held together by rust and duct tape. They laugh - it's a little funny - and give me that look that says, You aren't old enough to be held together by duct tape.

Then the litany of pounding aches, nagging pains, and problems we won't even go into because some people read this during lunch begins. Maybe I'm a little bit of a hypochondriac, but that doesn't mean there's nothing wrong with me.

Hmmm, they all say, their brows furrowed. Hmmm.

The medical history part usually takes about 45 minutes - starting with the fractured knees in middle school, dancing up to the difficult pregnancy, and then finishing off with what's wrong NOW - leaving no time to actually try to fix anything. Relief deferred, again. And when we're done, they almost always go, Well. (scratch head). Hmmm.

I like to challenge my medical professionals. I'm sure they get tired of the same old, same old. I like to make them reach way back in their medical training while sending them scurrying to the Internet to look up the latest treatments not yet available in my area.

You don't even want to know.

And those lovely medical professionals give it their best shot. Susan, Ruth, Theresa - everyone has a different answer - strengthen this group of muscles, try prolotherapy on those joints, have surgery on that knee, do more stretches (HA! I can't even touch my shins, more or less my toes!), that sort of thing.

And you know what happens?

Something gets better. I have a 12 mm lift on my right shoe now. (I'm on a first name basis with the local cobbler these days.) (and don't get me started on how unsexy it is to have a half-inch heel on a running shoe. Don't.) And that helped my hips.

But for everything that gets better, something else gets worse. My hips leveled out - and the change in posture threw my upper back and neck into paralysis. Plus, the lifts change how I walk in my shoes. Blisters, anyone? (See? I told you. I get whiny.)

I had physical therapy on Tuesday and a dr. appointment. Today, Thursday? PT and two dr. appointments. My life, on health insurance. (And yes, I give thanks for having it. Every damn day.)

This all leads me to a series of inescapable conclusions.

1. I will never be what I once was. I could be better, but it will be a different better. Not the same. Get used to that fact, because it leads directly to:

2. I am getting old. This is just the beginning.

and 3. It beats the hell out of the alternative. Every morning I pick my toddler up and carry him downstairs is a morning I didn't have yesterday. So what if it cricks my back? That 45 seconds of sleepy toddler love is worth it, because those days are short.

Some days are bad. Some days I hurt enough to sit and cry. But that's still a day where my toddler ran to hug me when I picked him up at daycare. That's still a day my hubby kissed me goodbye and said I love you when I drove him to work.

Some days, that's all you need. Hugs, kisses, and another roll of duct tape.

I buy in bulk.