My physical challenges are not something I discuss very often
because I don't let them stop me from doing what I want to do. After all, I
traveled to Chicago for the first AWP conference on two canes, a month after
hip replacement surgery, and performed poetry at the Green Mill Jazz Club.
My condition has resulted in severe arthritis in all my joints.
As a one-year-old, I had congenital hip dislocation, and had to be in a full
body cast for a year and braces for the next two years, a daytime one that came
up from a shoe to buckle around my pelvis and a nighttime one that was a long
rod between my feet (I learned to walk around the house by swinging from one
foot to the other). When I turned 12, the doctors discovered my hip shelf had
never developed. I had surgery on both hips which involved bone graphs, a giant
pin and smaller pins, and a body cast from under my breasts to my feet,
followed by crutches. (8 weeks in cast and 10 weeks on crutches on left side, 10 weeks in cast and 12 weeks on crutches on right side.)
.
But after that, I was very active! I danced, walked, biked, did
yoga, and carried kids on my hips as a mother
and as a professional nanny. I
carried boxes of groceries to feed the homeless, hiked up hillsides to camp,
and moved furniture as a preschool teacher. I carried babies on my back and
split wood for the wood stove. I walked two miles to work and back, and then
went out dancing!
Dancing with Poetry: with Word Dancers in Santa Fe
The hip replacements were not a surprise at ages 54 and 55. The
pain was intolerable due to being bone-on-bone. The surprise was when my doctor
told me my bones were like those of a 70-year-old woman. I have no cartilage in
my hands, and my feet are telling me maybe there as well. My orthopedic surgeon
is aware that I am reluctant to do more surgery; I am grateful for the hip
replacements but my hips are not the same.
The blessing is that I was able to get on disability and
Medicare, which enabled me to focus on my writing. I didn't have to search for
another full time job that involved being on my feet.
The blessing was to appreciate all that my body has learned and
enjoyed, knowing that some of those activities will never feel the same. The
blessing is learning about prana healing and healing circles and the power of
prayer.
Today I walked around the duck pond, walking past the pain in my
back, to enjoy the fresh air and sun on my face. After one circle and a rest,
the second trip around was better. I used to love being outside and could get
almost anywhere by walking or biking—I took so much for granted.
Today I am grateful for the yoga classes on line that help with
flexibility and stamina. I notice that yoga is being added to writers'
conferences and retreats. I'm not the only one who needs a break from sitting
to stretch and breathe deeply.
I am grateful to better understand my students in writing
workshops who deal with chronic pain. At least mine can be assuaged with
arnica, CBD oil, and the infrared heating pad. Tylenol only when desperate....
I am grateful for the fact that my condition was passed down
through the women in my family and I have a son and grandsons.
The blessings of my disability is that I am not always
spontaneous and can't just run out the door, hoping to get everything done. I have
to plan my steps, how much is realistic and where to stop and rest. That may
not seem like a blessing to you but in fact, it makes me more productive in the
long run because it makes me more focused.
The blessing is that whenever we are different from the models
shown to us on the media, we know we also have gifts, talents, and an authentic
presence. We are quick to compare ourselves and judge. I hope that the checkout
clerk will be patient when I pack up my groceries. I wave on the driver of the
car paused at the corner who may not be patient enough to give me the time I
need to cross the street, in particular if it is icy. And I have to swallow my
pride and tell the bus drivers to lower the ramp so I can ascend and descend,
or they will be watching me hesitate, cling to the handle, and haul myself up.
I don't mind the silver in my hair but I do mourn the way my
body once was able to joyfully express itself without holding back or paying
the consequences later. I don't mind that my body is a map of desires, births,
accidents, and inheritance, but lately getting up from kneeling is a project
accompanied by pain in the knees. (O no!)
Thank God for suitcases on wheels and for Uber drivers! For
friends who help push the grocery cart and unload the trunk. For the grace to
receive the help I need instead of resentment that I need it. For grabbers and
extra-long shoehorns. For all the ways my body has been my horse, as the poem
goes, and is now my nag.
Question
By May Swenson
Body my
house
my horse
my hound
what will
I do
when you
are fallen
Where will
I sleep
How will I
ride
What will
I hunt
Where can
I go
without my
mount
all eager
and quick
How will I
know
in thicket
ahead
is danger
or treasure
when Body
my good
bright dog
is dead
How will
it be
to lie in
the sky
without
roof or door
and wind
for an eye
With cloud
for shift
how will I
hide?
.jpg)
