My Mom fell and broke her wrist last weekend.
My first thought was, “Sheesh, Mom’s too young for the falling and breaking stuff. She’s only in her sixties.”
But it happened, and she’s up for some painful surgery to turn her wrist from a maraca into something useful again.
My wife’s Mom has had her own health issues, too and she’s also youngish–in her sixties. I
t all seems so unfair.
Where are the vigorous sixty-somethings playing tennis in the Centrum ads or (God forbid) in the spots for you-know-what: holding hands with their graying studs in adjoining bathtubs?
No tennis for Mom. She hates tennis, even with two good wrists. And the bathtub thing…nevermind.
But at least she could get around without falling and breaking things. When did this happen? When did she become…old?
The more I think about it, the more I think it was several years ago, when my Mom’s own mother passed on. It flipped a switch somehow and gave her permission from the cosmos to get old. That mortal barrier was suddenly obliterated, and the chasm to eternity opened wide with nothing more than a velvet rope for safety.
Mom’s battles with depression haven’t helped. This latest health setback could trigger some other unpleasantness. I’m stunned at how fragile we are.
And it stinks.
It stinks because I’m in my early 40s and want Mom around–not just for me, but for my daughter who turns one next month. I want my daughter to know my Mom at her best: funny, wisecracking, even a little trying. I want her to know a grandmother who’s able to pick her up for a hug and to take her to the park.
That’s just not possible now with a broken wrist. Damn it.
Tags: broken wrist, grandparents, mortality