I put a little spin on Christmas this year, an impromptu, spontaneous kind of spin; the kind of spin one would avoid if given the chance. But it was a learning opportunity.
I went all out for Christmas dinner this year. For two straight days I prepared – cutting up every variety of vegetable ever heard of (a slight exaggeration), brined the turkey, cooked cranberries, made dinner rolls the way my grandmother did when I was a child, tucking them in on the sofa in the morning sunshine to rise, patting them like a baby’s bottom. I lopped off a small balsam in my yard and stuck it in a pot and covered it with twinkle lights. I decorated, set a festive table, had Christmas music playing as I waited for my family to arrive. It was as close to perfection as I am ever going to get with my set of skills. In just over twenty minutes, the meal had been consumed and we collapsed into chairs groaning with bliss and regret for the eyes-bigger-than-our-tummies by-product. My family went home with smiles, full tummies, and containers filled with leftovers.
Boxing Day was to be a re-run of the meal, inviting my dear friend Judith to partake in turkey and all the trimmings, albeit reheated. Everything was in the oven, ready for her arrival. Then tragedy struck. Footnote: the day before, I was standing on a chair returning a dish to its proper place of rest atop the kitchen cabinets when daughter Laurie chastised me for being a chair-stander. “Oh, good grief,” I responded with attitude. “I’ve been standing on chairs for …” You know the version. I ignored her.
Fast forward to Boxing Day morning. All the leftovers were heating in the oven, table was set, music was playing. One more dish to be returned to upper cabinets. I’ve been having trouble with my right knee for the past year; nothing serious and a little rest takes care of things. With a brain like mine, immobility is not in my wheelhouse. I stepped up on the chair with my good leg and accidentally pushed off with my bad leg. Snap! The meniscus tore in my right knee, and I nearly fell into the kitchen sink with the pain. Some choice language could be heard several miles away as I got myself down to a sitting position. If only I had the superpower to turn back time for even two or three seconds.
Judith came and we ate our Christmas Re-run meal as if the house was on fire. We didn’t talk. We didn’t laugh. We didn’t share stories of Christmas past. We ate. Then she drove me to the hospital, where I insisted she deposit me and leave, so she would not be exposed to the germs that would inevitably be hurling around the waiting room. I registered and was wheeled to a corner to wait my turn. The waiting room was filled with people coughing and moaning, one older woman with an obviously broken wrist, a young child with explosions from both ends. The list was long. I tried to find a comfortable position in the wheelchair (without success) and closed my eyes to take myself somewhere else. Before much time had passed, a miracle appeared called Laurie. She sat with me and chatted, distracting me from discomfort. We cheered every time someone’s name was called, which was seldom. For everyone receiving medical treatment, three or four more arrived. It wasn’t a winning battle.
I was in discomfort, but I was not ill like most of those waiting with fevers and coughs and aching joints and just wanting to lie down. Our medical system is challenged I realize, but I can’t help thinking we could do better. Staff were kind and friendly, doing their best to ease the angst of those waiting. Five hours later I was x-rayed and eventually seen by the doctor. Knee has passed its best before date, I was told, and it is time to get a new one. I prefer my original parts, especially when they work as they should.
I came home and Laurie helped me into the house. She fetched things and fed me, and we laughed about the reversal of roles. I eventually found my way to sleep, intermittently. And woke up in the morning ready to go to war with this knee and do my exercises and regain its strength and be ready to “ride at dawn” with arm raised in triumph. Or something like that. A Christmas to remember or forget, I’m not sure which. The good news is my daughters surrounded me with love and concern, a glorious feeling, and friends rallied with support. The new year can only get better from here.
wendistewart@live.ca
