March 19, 2018

I am lying in the Lafuma recliner that my older brother gave us years ago, my head pointed toward the floor and my feet pointed toward the ceiling.  I have put this outdoor recliner into service in my living room, because a week ago today I had total knee replacement of my left knee and this recliner does the best job of elevating my leg and minimizing the swelling. I have an ice pack wrapped around the knee and am covered from toes to neck by a soft red blanket that my friend Tanya gave me. The first time I used this chair for surgical recuperation was in 2004 when I was recovering from foot surgery. Then I had Bill to help me, and a little bell on the side table to ring when I needed him. I need him now.

Total knee replacement is not really an accurate term; it is more an enhancement of what is already there, plus a plastic disc in place of the missing cartilage. I prefer not to think of what the surgeon and his helpers did to my knee, but I know from the operation on my right knee three years ago that ultimately this knee with its titanium parts will be an improvement. Right now the knee hurts. The whole left leg hurts and has turned shades of blue and yellow, with bruises from thigh to ankle bone.

I miss Bill. He was there when I became violently ill with food poisoning at my mother’s apartment. He commandeered a wheelchair from the lobby of the senior high-rise, loaded my helpless self into it, put me into the car, and once home, drove the car onto the lawn and right up to the back door, where he unloaded me and got me into the house and into bed. He probably should have taken me to the hospital, but he got me home.

He was there when our family doctor stitched up the deep triangular cut made by the recalcitrant overloaded wheelbarrow I was trying to get through the pasture gate ahead of the thunderstorm. He was there, letting me hold his hand in a death grip while the foot surgeon removed the stitches that had stayed in a bit too long. He was there for me, all the many times of sickness and hurt.

And I was there for him, as the cancer laid waste to his body.

Now I am alone in our house, and I miss Bill. He was my rock, my anchor. After his death, one of his friends wrote a thoughtful note, making the point of Bill as my rock, though he did not know us well as a couple. I guess he read between the lines of the long letter I wrote every Christmas. He said I was like a kite, and that Bill held the string that kept me on the earth. I did not like that image very much at the time, but I have grown to appreciate it.

I turn my head to look out the large picture window. It is an overcast day but I can see a red kite in a blue sky, with the string held by a brown-haired boy with warm brown eyes. A red kite in a blue sky, tethered by love.