Mostly, I have tried to lead a good life. I took an eight-week course on Mindfulness Meditation and I meditate regularly, if not constantly. I did Yoga for years, until I fell and broke the talus in my left foot and the doctor said I couldn’t do weight-bearing exercises any longer—foreshadowing perhaps? But I kept up with Pilates faithfully, even during Covid and beyond with my favorite tape, “30 Minutes Pilates with Amy.” I practice Tai Chi during the summers in Brigantine, New Jersey, and on Zoom, with the same teacher the rest of the year. I eat a healthy Mediterranean diet, with lots of vegies, fruits, legumes and, yes, my share of chocolates. You tell me, then, why I need a replacement of my right knee? Could it be because my luck run out?
I used to walk faster than anyone else. Neither my students nor my daughters could keep up with me. Peter used to say that I was like Pac-Man, moving about all day long nonstop and that I traveled as if on roller skates. Was my health aggravated by playing Pickle Ball and I torn my left meniscus? Or was it only a red herring? Didn’t I do Physical Therapy steadily and took a balance workshop as the doctor suggested? Didn’t I endure the cortisone shots in both knees without complaining? And finished an entire round of gel injections? Granted that I couldn’t have gone to Morocco and then to Spain without them.
Now I’m on first name basis with the orthopedic surgeon. Most of the time we get along well. Until he asks me routinely if I’m afraid of falling. Isn’t everyone? I tell him. Or is there someone who is looking forward to taking a fall?
By Halloween this year I could hear my right knee crunching and crackling like a real skeleton walking around. Never mind that I went up and down the stairs in tiny little steps, terrified of falling, of course. By Thanksgiving I started using a cane, I bought something practical and ugly from the local CVS. I kept remembering Luis Buñuel’s film Tristana, the title role played by a very young Catherine Deneuve, when she loses her leg and we see her prosthesis on the bed. I realize I’m susceptible to literary terms and plots, but it’s hard to forget the novel of the same name by Benito Pérez Galdós. At least my father would have been proud of me.
I knew I was in trouble when my daughter Jane gave me a fancy, collapsible cane with shiny flowers and a night light on the handle to use at holiday festivities. Sure enough, there I am as long as the party is in my building or in Washington Square—I try to keep my walking to 500 steps a day on my Apple watch. Didn’t I say I was being good?
Finally, my surgery has been scheduled. It’s going to be on January 13th. At first, the surgeon suggested January 6th. Whaaat? I jumped on the examining table, didn’t he know that it was the day of the Three Wise Men, the Epiphany no less? I’ll never be American enough, I thought, while my other daughter, Didi, explained to the doctor the wonderful Spanish tradition. He only operates on Mondays, so the 13th it is. Since I was born on the thirteenth this is a superstition I don’t have.
Thus, I’m sorry to say that I’ll be away from this blog for a couple of months and I’ll miss your comments. Have some wonderful holidays! Be good; do your exercises, don’t eat too many sweets, meditate, and be thankful you can still dance. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Love, Concha
Dear Readers,
Something interesting happened with this post. I thought I wrote it in jest, with self-deprecating humor, but most of you took it seriously and wrote sweet messages, wishing me well. I guess this was one of those times when Spanish and American humor collided.
In any case, thanks to those of you for your kind words. Among them: Lucille Pilling, Tom Deveny, Vera Wilson, Cristina de la Torre, Inés Alberdi, Ángeles Encinar, Diane Rossheim, Alan Harler, Myra Kurkowski, Laura Regnier, and Eileen Cunniffe.
To everyone my thanks, I will keep you posted of my progress.
Love, Concha