It’s been a year since I had surgery, followed by weeks of therapy. Speech therapy helped me regain the words and other memories I had lost from being on morphine too long. I was told that my memory would return, all in its own in time, but as a writer, I had neither the time nor the patience to wait for that to happen naturally.
Physical therapy helped me regain most of the strength I’d lost from so much time confined to bed and wheelchairs. Occupational therapy helped me find new ways to do some of the things that were no longer easy, probably as much from age as from the effects of my illness and convalescence. I am no longer able to walk without a lot of effort and concentration, so I use a walker most days, on good days I get by with just a cane. I gave up driving before all this happened because I feared I’d not be able to move fast enough in an emergency. I found other ways to get to appointments, meetings and the grocery store, and plenty of willing friends and family to take care of the things I couldn’t do.
Not wanting to be waited on hand and foot, I still try to do as much for myself as I can, even though it takes me a lot longer and I’ve had to figure out how to compensate for some of my waning abilities. I find it difficult to reach very far without experiencing pain in my shoulders. No longer able to raise both arms sufficiently to put my hair in my usual ponytail, I had it cut short. (The drawback to that is that, once hair is the ideal length, it continues to grow, but I’ll deal with that when it is again too long to manage comfortably.)
I’ve never much cared for housework, and even though I managed pretty well for most of my adult life, I’m really happy to have an excuse to let it slide. My own disorderliness doesn’t bother me and if it bothers other people in my life, they’re welcome to pitch in and do it for me. I figure that, at my age, I don’t want to spend what time I have left doing things I hate, and the pandemic has made me uncomfortable with the idea of bringing in outside help. I like to cook (and eat) but don’t spend a lot of time at it these days, though I do manage to feed myself adequately with things I like. I am always trying to find easier ways to do things and tend to prepare twice as much as I want of some things so there will be another meal ready to be reheated later. I have never liked to eat the same thing two days in a row, so I tend to make meals that can be frozen or survive a few days in the fridge before I reheat them. Bless the inventor of the microwave oven. I suspect that I’ve spent a lot of my life doing things that weren’t really important. Too bad I can’t retrieve all that wasted time, money and effort now when I need it.
I find that some kitchen appliances are difficult to use and wonder why there have to be tools and other products made especially for the handicapped or the elderly. It seems to me that a well-designed tool would be easier for everybody to use, not just those with “special” needs. I’ve learned to improvise, and that’s where the basket of yarn comes in.
A laundry basket full of leftover yarn in many colors (some nearly full skeins, some just a few yards, some recycled from seldom worn scarves and sweaters) kept me occupied for weeks. I dug out a crochet hook and started making potholders for myself and ended making dozens more for friends and relatives. I made several different shapes and sizes, and tied a few that more or less matched into sets of three or four. One day, when my big cup of coffee kept getting cold before I could drink it all, I crocheted a “cozy” for it. Later, when I wanted to take it to my study to sip while I worked, I added a yarn handle to make it easier to carry while using the walker. Next came a similar one to hold a bottle of cola; I added a little pocket to hold the bottle cap. Next came a hanging pouch for my cellphone, and another to keep tissues, a pen and some plastic forks and spoons handy. I had ideas for several more useful things to make, but I ran out of yarn.