DON'T LAUGH AT OUR SHOES

Kathe Campbell
Montana
April 13, 2014

"Oh dear God, Pops, not a nursing home. How depressing!" Just a nasty little comment tossed at my poor husband after his prostate surgery.

"Don't be that way, hon. Doc likes the Convalescent Center's physical therapy program. It will save us trekking back and forth from the ranch," he tossed right back with a disheartened frown. Yet, behind Pop's eternal optimism, his tender look said forgiveness, and I felt like such an idiot.

The turn of events so bizarre, both of us were diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis mere weeks apart with nagging foot pain. For me, unholy degrees of hurt and swelling hung on while scouring the town for comfortable footwear and having my rings resized. For Pops, his surgery had interacted badly, playing havoc with crippling feet.

"I don't care what you put on your feet, but you two need to exercise. All your paths will have pebbles, and they're going to hurt like hell. So keep it moving kids, keep it moving," our rheumatologist urged.

Anti-inflammatories and pain reducers were plied quickly and aggressively. We two old crows became walking drugstores, meeting twice daily at our pill drawers, swigging down his and her sizes, numbers and colors. While I winced during simple aerobics, Pops embraced lethargy in his big recliner. There was no moving him until, alas, his toes began turning up and under, eventually residing atop one another. So, off we went to a foot surgeon who broke down Pop's metatarsal joints and pinned each toe, one foot at a time.

Battling our woes, RA's viciousness played brutal tricks on our feet and hands that slowly lost their identity as pairs. Drifting hither and yon like fickle winds, bones and joints contorted and relaxed in their own sweet time. Our days began with oversized tennis shoes or loafers, and by noon we dove into the closet for tired old mukluks and moccasins. Hikers, oxfords, and cowboy boots were out. Togetherness, humility, sloppy and soft were in - even in snowstorms.

Pops yearned to drive his truck and return back to work. Balancing himself on a favorite cane, he looked distinguished rather than decrepit. Distinguished, that is, until one looked down to contemplate trendy, lopsided, super wide, unmatched sneakers laying in sharp contrast to fancy canes and business attire. Even the endless parade of custom tailored insoles doing their gellin' thing was short-lived. Sliding back into further days of swollen and hurting joints, we indulged in hydrotherapy.

I pulled open the heavy Convalescent Center's security doors to a mix of bodily functions, institutional disinfectants, and kitchen aromas drifting up the elevator shaft. Standing there momentarily sickened and stunned, worrisome questions grabbed at me. "How can I leave my man in this god-awful place, even for a few weeks?" Needing assurances, I had to see for myself.

Feeble greetings in the pleasant foyer by a few oldsters emerged as forlorn stares. I wondered what those dear souls were thinking as they followed my gimpy gait. Bustling aides wrestled with charts, meds, and the ever persistent ringing of impatient patients while the wheelchair brigade and I exchanged greetings.

Waiting to speak to Pop's nurse, I sat down to take the load off. Across the hall high-backed, cushiony chairs sat in a semi-circle occupied by an assortment of dozers in front of the big screen TV. One old gent insisted on the news while a gritty little piece of fluff was demanding her soaps. Recognizing a long time neighbor, I rushed to greet him, but he only stared at me vacantly and I died a little inside.

The heartrending encounter jolted something inside me, and suddenly I couldn't wait to hug and kiss my guy with a little more zing than usual. It felt so good seeing him looking better in his sweltering room. From that day on, Pops and I lived for his afternoon therapy sessions.

The consummate thinker wiling away sleepless nights, it wasn't long before one of Pop's idea lights flashed on, sending him straight into the arms of genius.

"Hi, hon, gotta run this one past you," came the wee hour cell call.

"What's wrong, Pops - it's the middle of the night," I groaned. "Don't tell me the little old lady down the hall tried climbing in your bed again?"

"No, not tonight," Pops laughed, sounding half disappointed. "The only thing crawling in my bed lately is the resident calico kitty."

"Okay, Pops, this better be good."

"You're gonna love it. I want you to round up that cockamamie stash of leathers and sneakers and take them to the ski shop to be stretched. My physical therapy is about to rock!" he trumpets.

The idea was brilliant, and even nicer, the Ski Haus offered an extra stretcher the very day Pops came home from therapy. No more hollowing out knobby joint peepholes in the sides of latitudinous gunboats, or flip-flopping around in gigantic old man slippers. Parting with high heels just waiting for disaster, my jazzy new flats were stretched to the limit before fancy dos, though defiant leather crept back forcing me to drive home barefoot.

Ambling along without flinching and squinching puts a whole new spin on our dotage. We're as reinvented as the next workout or closet full of funny shoes while wandering out to do chores beneath the hundred-year-old firs. It's fun schmoozing thoughts and energizing our souls, for whatever our souls are made of, Pops and mine are the same.

At nightfall we give thanks for another simple day, and the spirit of everything that's alive and comfortable after fifty-three years. A little weathered and not so full of sap, we bless God for salving our dry spells while preparing another rest. Long ago we decided to stay planted here, to care for the land, the creatures, and one another. I adore the idea, because we'll bloom again - just maybe not quite as dazzling.