Thursday, July 13, 2017

Spry at 77

It's John's birthday today. Last week when daughter Laura was with us she remarked (as a compliment) that we were spry. I don't think she noticed that I winced. Spry? Seriously. Old people are spry---or they're not. How could she use that word on us? Well, maybe John's not so spry. He has a limp when he hikes, insisting the pain is only a 1 on a scale of 1-10. I know he's lying so I haven't let him get by with it, and right now he's at the lab getting an x-ray of his hip. That was a major coup on my part, telling him that we both would feel bad if he were unable to do his usual hiking at Big Bend National Park this coming January, for which we have already made reservations.

I ought to regard this day as his big day. It's not. It's my big day.  Forty-three years ago today I gave birth to a 9 lb., 12 oz. boy. It's a day when the memories come flooding back. On a dare, I rode my bike (with Randy alongside me) to the hospital a mile away and gave birth a few hours later. It was a Saturday night and my doctor (due to a previously planned social engagement) skipped out even though I'd called her in the morning and again mid afternoon telling her my contractions---3 days after due date---were for real. Three other babies were born that same evening at the little Woodstock, Illinois hospital, so I had three doctors I'd never seen before taking turns looking after me. And while I was in the process of delivering, the doctor caring for me was called away to his patient. Just as I was pushing Carlton's head out, another doctor came in and slashed me with a procedure called an episiotomy (which Mayo Clinic now warns against except in extreme situations). So Happy Birthday Carlton---and John. Next week, I'm 72, and Laura, should you be reading this, I'm 72 and spry!