I wrote this a year ago and now I can look back and see how far I’ve travelled since then. Come with me to October 2014 when my husband and I were putting into practice what we’d promised each other more than fifty years before.
‘How’s that?’ Maurie asked as he stood at the end of our bed while I slowly moved my swollen toes. I sank back onto the pillows and smiled at him. ‘Perfect’, I said.
He’d found a box to keep the bedclothes off my sensitive foot. I hadn’t planned to break my hip or be so useless, but here I was, home from hospital and we were coping on our own.
As Maurie went outside to work in the vegie patch, I reflected on all the help he’d given me in the past few days. He’d put on my tight pressure stockings, lifted my heavy, swollen leg onto our high bed, helped me in the shower, driven to the doctor, the hospital, the radiology department, the pathology and the supermarket. He’d cooked meals, hung out the washing, cleaned the house and entertained the visitors: more jobs than he’d ever expected when he said, ‘I do’ nearly fifty-five years before. And he still tried to keep up his work outside!
I was determined to improve as soon as possible. The physio came and pushed me hard with new exercises. Soon she gave me a walking stick to replace the frame I’d been using. ‘Don’t go falling now’, she warned as she stepped away from our front door. ‘I’ve given it to you a week early’.
But my ‘naughty’ leg was stubborn. I faced the kitchen bench and tried to lift that poor leg. Each day Maurie stood by with a tape measure. ‘Thirteen centimetres’, he said, as I gently lowered my foot to the floor again. I sighed and wondered if I’d ever be able to walk normally.
Next day I talked to Jesus about it. ‘I can lift my good leg as high as this, Lord’, I said as it went up and down like a pump. ‘Please show me how to do it with the other one’.
After that vigorous exercise, I tried the damaged leg. My right knee slowly moved upwards…higher than before! ‘Oh! I understand now’, I said. ‘It’s a mind thing’. That pesky leg had picked up the message from its mate; the memory was returning. I gave it a new name: my ‘better’ leg.
I could hardly wait to show Maurie. Soon he appeared at the door, laden with carrots, beetroot and broccoli.
‘Come and see’, I cried as he dumped the produce in the sink with a thud. I touched my fingertips to the bench and lifted my good left leg four or five times.
‘Now watch this’, I said. Up went my other leg and he grabbed the ruler. ‘That’s eighteen centimetres!’ He grinned with the smile I’d always loved. We were like a couple of kids, rather than old fogies in their mid-seventies. Now I had hope.
So those two legs worked together, ‘better’ competing with ‘good’ until the ‘better’ one behaved as it should!
Now I walk without an aid. I can do things that I never thought I would again and I’m finding it’s good to live life more slowly…on purpose!
The other day Maurie and I held hands as we prayed and thanked our good Lord for his abundant blessings over this past year. I could never have done it without him…or Maurie.
Working hard in our garden recently!