My Wheels Are Falling Off

As ataxian, I'm commonly sporting some lump, bruise or something.*  Fortunately, the evidence of a mishap is often on my ass or some body part that's covered and doesn't elicit inquiry.  The mark is usually from a fall, but not always.  Once upon a time, I could brush it off, not feel it, or heal quickly.  These days, it takes so freakin' long to recover from an RRE (repair requiring event) and it's so unattractive.  Ugh!  It seems as if it doesn't take much to get a "senior stamp" or two.  Sometimes I know, but often I have no clue how I got the bruise–it just appears.  When bruising is visible, I can just say "My husband hit me."  No one who knows Earl gives that any credibility, but they figure that's the story, she's sticking to it, and they let the question drop.

@!#% happens

I've often said, and truly believe, it’s always something. Whether it's ataxia, cancer, heart disease, pain, aging, job change, they have many issues in common.   Ataxia and progression is certainly my particular risk factor, but there are non-neurological causes as well.  Although there are more people in my >60 age group (big surprise), age isn't as big an issue as life. 

Just when I thought I was among the few injury–prone klutzes and felt isolated, people I knew began to emerge.  They were companions in some sort of recovery from whatever. They provided assurance that I wasn't uniquely clumsy.  At least there was someone to talk to, as long as I kept it short.  The walking wounded seem to have a collective mortal dread of only being able to talk about their maladies.  There is often a remark about the back/knee/hip/rib and then a quick segue into a conversation unrelated to their body.  When someone else is the lucky recipient of the RRE, I'm very empathetic.  But I also have to admit to a little, internal voice  saying,​ "At least it's not me this time." ​

I've become a believer in maintaining some strength and flexibility**.  Exercise doesn't prevent anything, but it does make some kind of recovery more likely.  I'm trying to stop beating myself up (poor metaphor) for my falls, bumps, and bruises, but that's an ongoing process. Sometimes it's my fault, a miscalculation/overreach and sometimes it just happens.  Even the grandchildren have witnessed falls (scared the crap out of them, but they coped). My family and friends understand that, unless they deliberately pushed me, it's not their fault nor was it my intention to wreck their day.  I honestly don't think it's their responsibility to prevent a fall, repair a body part, or fix me.  

I have the time to devote to the rehab task of the day.   It's not as if my dance card is full.  I don't have to tough it out, no matter how I feel, and show up to a job with dwindling or no sick benefits.  What really gets to me is the unrelenting nature of my need to heal. It gets old. Forget fitness—I'm in perpetual recovery mode.  It seems as if I often have to choose between discomfort or an ibuprophen addiction.  Although I don't currently have a drug problem, I understand how one could develop.  When I start referring to medication as my "BFF", I know I will have have gone over the edge.  Actually, impaired mobility helps keep me on the straight and narrow.  Like I really need to be slower and further impaired.  

The Lesson:  I've come to accept that some form of rehab on some body part probably is permanently on my dance card.

*Previous post:Solitude is not a four-letter word
**Previous post: Skeeter, My Exercise Buddy