Life is short, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts and minds of those who travel the way with us, so be swift to love and make haste to be kind. Henry-Frederic Amiel
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When I lie in bed in the morning waiting for the courage to heave myself up and onto my walker to then tackle my urge to self-empty, I first watch the birds. I notice how long they stay still, eerily immobile, before they burst into flight. Are they sizing up their flight plans? They soon spread their broad wingspan and push up and off. As they trust the support of their wings they flatten their spindly legs up and under against their bodies, so their legs become quite invisible. (Look Ma, no legs!) Then they are ready to soar.
Kids are so enamored of this flight process they entertain themselves making paper airplanes to pitch and soar about planting messages of love or taunting wherever they land.
My own legs await take off. They’ve just been freed of swollen seromas, (collections of fluid under aging thinning skin.) The fluid had gathered uninvited under the skin to create ugly bulges and keep me from wearing any summer shorts. I am more dependent on my own twiggy legs to support my “flight” than any bird. I cannot tuck my suddenly overweight legs up and under for a smooth flight like this Tern can. (Don't check the abs, check the wee legs tucked in tight.)
Yesterday I went to see a vascular surgeon who’d promised to take care of my swellings. He did, and now one of my legs is covered with white compression bandages. The other leg shed its wrappings and my live-in nurse/beloved spouse created a makeshift bandage while I called out critiques.
The process was fascinating. Dr. D’Addario, whose first name is not “Hi Ho”, sat on a stool at my feet while I posed on the examining table and extended my legs. In a slow and dignified manner, the doctor, punctured my seroma with a razor sharp surgical knife—“just a little prick.”
As he gently pressed, a perfectly curled fountain arched out until my seroma was flat-out emptied, leaving behind a bunch of aged wrinkly skin around which the surgeon wound or unwound gauze bandage to cover and compress my legs, newly returned to their twiggy best.
But will these spindles hold me up so I can walk without assistance? Or will they be forced to tuck under while I fly like a bird? Perhaps I shall grow wings next. Because no one really knows what “aging-in-place independently” will look like for me as I approach my 86th birthday.
