The next
time you go for a walk, even if it’s just one of those short ones from A to B,
stop for a second and congratulate yourself on how brilliant you are. I mean, look at you. Nothing less than balletic is what I
would say. A masterclass in balance and forward momentum.
As for me, (thanks
for asking), I am now walking pretty well and covering quite a bit of Castlebar
territory every day. I walk to the library and practice going up and down their
stairs. I also walk around the Mall, which is something I promised myself I
would do again, after the hurly burly was done.
One kind
neighbour, who must have spotted me on my excursions, told Trish that I had got my ‘swagger’ back. That was kind and I
appreciate it a lot. But the truth is, I haven’t quite retrieved my swagger yet. But I’m working on it. I walk quite well… mostly... but the walk retains a studied, 'relearned' quality and is not quite second nature yet. If I meet somebody who I know and I walk along
with them for a while, the conversation causes my stride-concentration to wane
and the quality of the walking wanes a bit with it. I can walk pretty darned good and
for a good long time. I just have to concentrate on it a little bit. When I’m by
myself, I often quietly berate myself. “Walk right, you fucker,” I hiss, “stop
fucking around.”
Today (Saturday),
I dropped in on Anthony in the butcher’s shop, who shook my hand and sold me
some stewing steak. Then I ambled along the river to Tesco and got the makings
of a severe chilli. ‘Amble’ is good. When I am concentrating well, I can carry
off a convincing amble, I reckon.
I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m not all-better yet. I’m doing pretty great, that’s for sure, but, for example, while preparing my severe chilli, I found I couldn’t get the tin opener to work nor make the ring pulls on other tins bow to my will. (Don't judge me harshly on all those tins, there's lots of fresh stuff in my seevere chilli too, just kidney beans and tomatoes for the tins.) Time, and patience, that’s what’s needed. And a gently pushing on the door of the things I cannot yet do very well. An everyday ‘not settling’ for where I am at, while not pressing too far forward either.
It’s a balancing act… a bit
like the walking.
Another
aspect of this ‘getting better’ lark is how some of the details of my respective
stays in hospital and rehab seem to be gently fading away. I want to hold on to them,
as much as I can, because they help me appreciate how fucking amazing my life is. On
the other hand, I don’t think I can write all those things out, as that’s too much work
and also many of the things that happened involve other people whose privacy I wouldn't want to mess with.
So, what I’m
going to do is I’m going to allow myself a few keywords here. They may serve as
an ‘aide memoir’ to me when I look back on this post in years to come (which is
something I do). Each word tells a story, to me at least, and I don’t want to
forget any of them.
So…
The Fist
Fight. The Man Who Died, The Lady Who Came to Bed, The Man with the Three AM Toast (I’ll never
forget that), The Tiktok Man, The Traditional Music Session, Brent, The ‘Write Down
That He Is Afraid to Walk’ Man, Prune Juice, The Unassisted Walker, Delia, The
Tuning Fork, Stan Laurel Reflexes, Cleetus’ High Fives, ‘Vincent’, If It’s Good
Enough for The Baby, It’s Good Enough for Me, Naoise, Madeira Cake, The
Expanding Room, The American Invasion of ‘Medical B’, Shane’s Playlist, MC’s AI
Documentary, Peaceful Piano – American Songbook, ‘Tiptoes’, ‘Heels’, ‘You’re Hardly
Using It At All… Put It Down,’ Porridge, How Uncomfortable a Wheelchair Gets,
Alternating on Crutches, How The End of the Cycling Programme Looked Like a
Crematorium, The Teeny Tiny Immunoglobin Bottle’…
Enough for now. Each of these things tells me a story. Maybe I'll recall them when I reread this.
For now, though, it’s time to go out in search of that swagger again.
Walk right, you little shit!
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