Pom Pom

I was in the midst of formulating my speech to the doctor when, suddenly, sunshine coming in through the clinic's window made me smile. I greeted Dr. L. with laughter. Needless to say, she was a bit confused.
"How are you?"
I stopped giggling and answered "I'm fine. Looking at your sunny window I wonder why I am here."
"O.K! ??? I can make a note here and have them refund your money."
We both laughed.

I had whittled down my complaints to three major talking points.
"Well, here it is. In the scheme of world affairs not really earthshaking. But ... I can't read my body any more. I walk like an old lady. I am depressed."

I punctuated my summary with another smile, then I explained. About general stiffness in the morning. About not knowing when exercise is a good thing and when it aggravates the pain in my right leg. About tilting to the right when I walk, expecting the leg to cave, taking on the gait of those who limp through their senior years. About being afraid of the treadmill, but moving furniture around and shampooing carpets with heavy equipment. About staying in bed a whole day, because there is no pain when I am flat on my back. About pondering this during the next night, and not getting any sleep. I also told her that I felt silly about coming to her with symptoms that befall many people my age, but that I had found out at a medical forum that other older adults are as reluctant as I am to see a doctor about these things, things that could be relieved if addressed at an early stage, or at least discussed and accepted.

Watching the doctor's busy fingers on the keyboard I found some relief. If it is noted it is recognized. If it is recognized it is shared. If it is shared it is more easily bearable. And if it is bearable, the depression lifts.

She had me lie down on the examination table and turned my leg. I expressed discomfort with a jump and a sharp, partially suppressed "ugh."
"Looks more like a soft tissue injury than arthritis."
"Oh good. But it sure takes a long time to heal."
When I asked for advice on use of the leg she suggested: "Don't do what you CAN do. Do what your body tells you to do."

It didn't make sense to argue this point. Even if I can't read my body right now, it still speaks. It'll probably have to raise its voice so I can hear it, or I'll have to cup my ears to catch some stray sounds of body language.

She ordered an X-ray of my hip joint, suggested physical therapy, commented on my regular exercise schedule, lauded my knitting as beneficial to the osteoarthritis in my hands. I left for the lab while she lingered over my chart.

My next stop? A cup of coffee and a pumpkin muffin at the coffee shop.



As I sat and reflected I wondered what would hold together the Bears I knitted recently. Matata's boys..... what could I make to differentiate them from previous Bears? I had dumped a bunch of leftover yarn in front of Matata, determined to make a group of eight Bears from the heads I had knitted during the cruise.






I've done backpacks and beanies and suspenders and buttons and pockets for boys. Purses and flowers and headbands for girls. What is left?
Would pom poms be appropriate? Pom poms on beanies?
As I always do, I chased away unpleasant thoughts with knitting thoughts. Then I went home to make pom poms.