My new costume
The last Halloween costume that I “wore” was the time that I drew an eye in the middle of my forehead with white out and an eyebrow pencil.
That was at least 30 years ago. That and a black light were my initial First Street effort at Halloween.
Since then, not so much, however, this year I have a notion to costume up for Oct. 31.
“And what will you be,” you may ask.
I thought that this year I would sport an outfit and persona of someone recovering from two surgeries that have left me with a pronounced limp and consistently inconsistent discomfort and fatigue. No fair if you have thought to model a similar outfit.
I already have a cane, actually four canes, one on each floor of the house and one in the car.
I have perfected the skill of muttering just barely under my breath about the lack of pain medication available to people with broken femurs that haven’t healed after seven months and doctors that say, “take some Tylenol.”
Tylenol? I might as well eat a cream filled chocolate covered donut…which I have and which explains my change in weight that the same doctors decry.
I mean, I have this costume locked.
Now, I would prefer to wear another costume or persona who is 30 pounds lighter, and could, if she wanted, audition for Dancing with the Stars, the Ice Capades or alternately plan and executed a walk along the Appalachian Trail.
This person would not mutter sanitized obscenities but would sing appropriate hiking and athletic like versions of sea chanties.
She would walk the entire length of First Street without help and perform outstanding feats of housework like wash the floors on her hands and knees and scrub down the kitchen cabinets.
She would merrily fulfill all of the promises she had made to her various volunteer efforts and may even take on more.
Stairs and wet surfaces would not be a source of dread. Running or even walking fast would be within the realm of possibility.
Delusional?
But as I contemplate how I will navigate the coming crazy season, I do have choices. First, I have to put to bed the idea that the woman who walked into St. Joe’s for hip replacement surgery no longer exists.
She has gone away along with the stability of her right hip and leg and a good night’s sleep … Tylenol does not alleviate “discomfort” that wrestles with the need for that good night’s sleep.
Who her reinvention will be is still up for grabs.
She totters on the edge of being grateful for what is, for the help that her family and friends have extended and the abyss of “this isn’t fair. I did everything I was supposed to do. Someone messed up.”
Feeling sorry for one’s self is not productive. It leads to blaming and cream filled chocolate covered donuts.
Which is what I was trying to explain to the orthopedic surgeon. While he tells me that the prosthesis is fixed well in place, I am trying to tell him that I can’t live the life I had even before the surgery…He doesn’t think that is his purview and as life goes, it is true. It is mine.
So, if you come to the house on Halloween, you may see someone in transition from who she was to who she is becoming and hopefully that newer version has strength to move forward and not back.
At best, I can dig up a bottle of white out and find an eyebrow pencil.
But, it will be my trusty spouse who greets Halloweeners on the porch while I contemplate my reinvention, my new costume.
