Uncertainty

 

For most of my life I’ve been fairly certain about how things would go. I would be healthy, athletic, educated, a good teacher, etc.

It did not cross my mind—for many years—that I would be uncertain about most things—like walking across the room, say.

This morning, for example, we had to be out of the house for a couple of hours because the women who clean our house every two weeks were coming over.

So we drove over to Kent (the back, scenic way), found a place to hang out for an hour, get some coffee, etc. And I was fine—no, I was more than fine. My balance was pretty good; I felt stable.

I started thinking (foolishly) that things were getting better; maybe I was getting better.

Nope.

When we got home (still feeling good), I headed up to bed for a nap (my late-morning custom) while Joyce headed off for an important engagement. I promised her I would stay in bed.

And I was fine.

Until I got up to go you-know-where, and, suddenly, my fierce dizziness returned, and I had to hold on to pieces of furniture, coming and going.

I improved (mildly) when I sat down for lunch for a while, but I knew now that my nemesis had not left me but had just taken a break, perhaps, cruelly, to let me think I am better—then return to remind me that I am not.

Thank goodness Joyce was home to help me settle in to where I am now—on the living room couch to do a little work before heading up for Nap #2.

I remember thinking—as my parents aged (my father well before my mother; he was six years older)—that Mom was, well, denying certainty because she had remained in far better health than my father.

She was proud of that—acted is if weakness and fragility were not part of her future because, you know, she exercised, ate well, stayed active, didn’t smoke or drink (okay, except for some wine now and then).

And then she learned otherwise. She ended up in bed, as many of the rest of us do/will, where life slowly abandoned her.

Of course, as I was judging Mom then, I wasn’t thinking that I would ever be in her place. After all, I exercised regularly, ate well, didn’t smoke or drink, etc.

And now ... here I am.

I’m asking myself: Will I make it across the room? Will I be able to survive a shower? Is it time for a nap yet?

It seems I’ve reached the beach where I’ll enjoy my final sunsets and walks before I find I cannot escape the incoming tide.