Learning To Go Backward In Order To Go Forward by Margo Hoornstra

Something remarkable happened to me the other day. I walked into the grocery store. Plus, once I got inside, I walked all around as well.

 

Not that big a deal, you say? It was to me.

For the better part of last year, I wasn’t able to do that. Walk, I mean. Not without a tremendous amount of pain in both knees. Even those times when I decided to grin and bear it, my right knee had developed a tendency to collapse out from under me.

My trips to the grocery store, that most basic of activities, changed drastically. I used to walk behind the cart, pause here and there, pick up items to buy – or not – and move on. Suddenly, instead of walking behind the cart, I was in it, rather on the attached bench type seat with my husband doing the pushing and, lucky guy, all the walking. A minor inconvenience to be sure. More important, I have to tell you, never had I felt so out of control. So powerless. All I could do as we moved along the aisle was sit and watch everything slide by, and call out when I wanted to stop to look at something. Occasionally, I’d hobble over to the shelf myself, but not often.

For a number of years, my husband and I would get home from work, change our clothes, grab the dog-a kid or two if they were interested-and go. Running, jogging, hiking, walking three, four or five miles, more on week ends. Rain, snow or sunshine, the weather didn’t matter. The miles did. Yeah. We were those people, I’m afraid.

 

Such a basic function, walking. Now I couldn’t do it anymore.

Enter the wonders of medical science. I won’t bore you with the details. My doctor prescribed physical therapy among other things, and I was all over it. Cumbersome braces one for each knee, exercises, taping procedures I learned to do myself, a series of weekly shots to replace cartilage type fluids.

Which brings me to the theme of our Roses of Prose essays this month.

Part of my PT regimen is walking backward on a treadmill up to a half hour at a time, three or four days a week. Turned out, among other things, my derriere was underdeveloped. Yeah. Never thought I’d hear that one in my lifetime, but there it was.

From a muscular standpoint my physical therapist was quick to explain.


Oh.

Such a basic function, walking. One we take for granted, I certainly did. Until I couldn’t do it anymore.


This is not to say there weren't setbacks and frustrations. Baby step advances and giant step retreats. Rare, okay not so rare, bouts of whining to those who would listen. It would be nice to report all the pain is gone. However, I'm old (ahem) enough to know that isn't going to happen. Doesn't matter. I will take what I can get.

 

Thank goodness doing something as simple as going backward would help me be able to go forward again.


Happy New Year. All!
Margo



www.margohoornstra.com
www.margohoornstra.blogspot.com

More March MADness – Also Sans Basketball By Margo Hoornstra

Like many of my colleagues here at the Roses of Prose, the particulars of what March Madness means to me has nothing to do with basketball. And, in my case, everything to do with anger.

No, anger is too strong. A better word to describe my displeasure would be frustration. Frustration that, in our neck of the woods which is the upper Midwest, winter has to hang on for so gol darned long.

I know that little flurry guy from Pennsylvania recently predicted an early Spring, but I’d just like him or his representative to explain the major winter storms that continue to maul their way across the, well, upper Midwest.

Maybe part of my madne—um, frustration stems from the fact we recently returned from two weeks in Arizona. And though the weather wasn’t optimal by their standards—temperatures barely reaching sixty degrees by day that plummeted to forty something at night—it sure beat the blizzard conditions and freezing temperatures we left behind in Michigan.

My husband and I are avid walkers—used to be runners, but that’s a story for another day. Rain, shine or whatever, we hit the streets most every day for our anywhere from three to six or seven miles. One of the best things about being in Arizona, in addition of course to the relatives we went there to visit, was being able to step out the door to walk without having to layer on the clothing such as waterproof wind breakers, hats and ski gloves. In Arizona, we were the short sleeve shirts and shorts clad walkers. As opposed to the obvious locals we occasionally met who were wearing long pants and, yes, winter jackets.

On our return to Michigan, it was a watch your step on the icy path kind of walk that can really mess up your stride, and, darn but that wind is so sharp it’s making my eyes water.

However, being of the glass half full persuasion—or maybe I just wanted to make myself feel better—I began to concentrate more on the pros of this walk than focusing on the cons.

In the Phoenix area where we were, people abound. A walk there, even in the suburbs, included cars, lots and lots of cars to watch out for. In our little town in Michigan, a walk means country roads and scenic paths. Even walking down Main Street at ten AM there’s rarely a car in sight.

Also on the walk in Michigan, after a mile or two my toes were no longer numb and my fingers warmed up to the point I traded my heavy duty ski gloves for a pair of the simple, dollar a pair knitted variety. And though we had to maneuver around snow banks and patches of ice, the sun did emerge for the last half hour which was nice. And the sky overhead was the same pretty blue I remembered from Arizona.

But the true pro versus con test became clear by what my husband pointed out when I told him I was writing this essay;

“We sure tend to move a lot faster here in Michigan so we can get out of the cold.”

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