Woozy Daze

The past few years I've become increasingly woozy--unsteady on my feet. I've had some tests to figure out what's going on (including a brain MRI, which came back "unremarkable"--which is not really a thing you want to hear about your brain!). Nothing has emerged. Perhaps it's my BP med? Or inner ear issues? Or just, you know, being an Older Guy.

All I know is that I must be extremely careful when moving around these days--no sprints up and down the stairs, no pick-up basketball games, no swings of a Wiffle Ball bat (one such swing sent me to the ground--immediately--last Memorial Day when I was playing with one of my grandsons in his back yard; there was no realization Oh, I'm falling ... I was just down).

I have to be especially careful out at the health club. It's when I'm on my feet for protracted periods that the dizziness grows worse. A couple of weeks ago, I ignored my body's warnings (oh, aren't we all good at that!) and kept walking my wonted mile around the indoor track. When I finished, I was virtually reeling. I headed toward one of the easy chairs they have in the little lounge area near the track, and I didn't quite make it. I fell into one of the chairs (not the soft part!), and deeply bruised my ribs. I've looked in recent days as if someone hit me with a baseball bat. (It's better--no pain--but I know my next bone scan up at Seidman Cancer Center is going to show a mess in my right rib cage.)

And yesterday, preparing the sourdough bread dough, I was operating the mixer when I inadvertently knocked over one of the little metal containers I use for storing the varieties of flour I use. It hit my coffee cup, which deposited its contents all over the kitchen floor.

I got some paper towels and bent over to wipe up some of the 16 oz when ... down I went. I could not stop myself, and there I lay, like a wounded warthog, unable to rise. I had my phone on me, so I called Joyce, who was upstairs, and down she hustled to help me--something she's done now for a half-century.

I lay down on the couch for a little while, and I "recovered"--not fully, of course. That now seems impossible. But enough that I could finish the bread prep and baking. And I could begin the battle against the deepening depression that affects me whenever my body betrays me--an all-too-frequent occurrence these days.

I find that I must be circumspect about all I do physically now  sitting down and standing up, walking over to the coffee shop, exercising at the club, turning around in the shower. Hell, breathing is probably next!

But, of course, I'm 75 years old. I'm not going to regain somehow my youthful insouciance about hurling my body around--lunging for a tennis ball, whirling around and dribbling to the basket, swinging a baseball bat, ...

In fact, I'm not even going to walk down the stairs without thinking about every single step--without realizing what a single misstep could mean ...

So from now on, I must be grateful for Memories: They are now among my most cherished companions.