It began with a tiny twinge in my right knee. But I wasn’t going to let a little pain stop me. I ignored it. Every day I walk for an hour so I grabbed my headphones and headed to the Malecon but after walking for only ten minutes, my knee began to throb in tune with Tina Turner’s Simply the Best. I turned up the volume and my pace. But the pain followed suit and it won.
I lowered myself onto a bench, pulled off my earphones and watched the parade of people. From bounding gazelles to lumbering hippos; you see it on the Malecon. Then, I noticed a young man in the sports-wheelchair wearing racing gloves and a big smile, a tiny old woman in a flowered polyester dress supported by two tall, young men who chatted over her head, and a man whose paralyzed left side refused to cooperate with his agile right half. For the first time, I noticed the people who had difficulty walking.
At home I swallowed an 800 mg Motrin, rested, and the next day I laced my tennis shoes and left the house without Tina’s insistent beat. Although I walked more slowly, I couldn’t ignore the pain. I sat and watched the waves. They say that fear comes in waves and I was scared. Would I end up like the man in the wheelchair, the old shuffling woman, or the stroke victim who had to drag half his body around?
I made an appointment with a physical therapist.
In the waiting room Fear whispered, “Knee replacement surgery.” Then he said, “Complete bed rest.” Finally, and worst of all, “Sorry, there’s nothing we can do to cure old age.” On television a hysterical woman, who could have been my alter-ego, wept tele-novela tears.
The clinic’s entrance door swung open. Two attractive women practically carried their mother into the room. Alex quickly offered his seat and the sisters slowly lowered their twig-legged mother. A tiny groan escaped her lips. I looked away.
Within five minutes the youngest told me that she was newly married and had lived in Houston for two years. But when she heard of her mother’s physical difficulties, she asked her employer for a leave of absence, and she returned to La Paz. “Naturally, my husband understands that I must take care of my mother”, she said. She had no idea when she’d be returning to her husband.
Her older sister lifts weights so she’ll be able to attend to her mother’s needs. These women chatted easily and laughed frequently. They included Mama in the conversation. And they constantly caressed her.
As we talked, the cleaning woman came in with her mop. She immediately went to the older woman, leaned down, patted the old woman’s flabby arm and asked, “como esta ud. hoy?” The old woman smiled and said, “Mejor, gracias mija “.
Later the physical therapist entered, put her arm around the old woman and whispered into her mushroom-colored ear. The therapist nodded and the daughters helped their mother into the therapy room.
I sat surrounded by crutches, wheelchairs and walkers. What was I doing there? As if ashamed, my knee hadn’t twitched the entire time. I got up and said, “Alex, let’s go.” But, at that moment the nurse called my name.
The doctor prodded, bent and twisted my leg until I winced.
He said, “No problem. After five rehab sessions you should be pain-free and able to return to your normal walking schedule.”
No surgery, no crutches, and no mention of old bones. I’d been given a reprieve. And a gift – the opportunity to observe people who cared, listened, and weren’t afraid to touch old wrinkled bodies.
Maybe someday when I’m old, I’ll be lucky. Perhaps there will be people who will treat me with kindness regardless of my flaccid skin or brittle bones. But, until then, I’m going to try to be brave. Courageous enough to visit and assist aged acquaintances.
