Me Before Me and the Poopy Dog

First, please don’t throw a ton of shade for this ludicrous comparison, but in week 10 of imposed inaction from a fractured tibia, I’ve been reflecting on a novel I read three months ago, Me Before You, now a movie. 

It’s about a quadrapalegic who entertains the idea that death would be better than an action-packed life siphoned down to an existence dependent upon a third party to keep an ebbing life force sludging along into a future without hope of recovery. Whew.

As I’ve spent day after day after day perfecting the imprint of my backside in my leather recliner, it got me thinking about the mind-body connection. Here’s what I think I’ve learned: as goes my body, there goes my mind. 

Think about it: if you had 10 weeks during which you were freed from any and all mundane tasks--with the only mandate to stay off your right leg and take care of yourself--what might you achieve? The possibilities are staggering (I had to go there).

Maybe you would finally read the classics? Learn French? Address and send out those Christmas cards languishing under expired coupons at the back of your desk? Fill in the kids’ baby books? Start--or finish--the great American novel? Learn to meditate? Translate the Bible into emojis? I know, draw up a plan to end world hunger! 

Ah, if only.

Not so much for this shut-in. It's as if the immobilization of one leg--just a knee really--also shut down my ability to see past the TV (resulting in the side effect of dry-eyes from lack of blinking). 

I thought I'd hit bottom when I started making smart-ass comments to what passes for news commentators on my omnipresent TV, including scorching retorts regarding the ever-present Trumpitis that has infected the air waves. But then something outside the boob tube occurred, and I realized that my brain has as far to go recovery-wise as my steel-laced tibia.

BJ Auch, who is like a beloved daughter, sometimes leaves her dog with us, and the other day, I was convalescing on the upper deck when Annie Banannie ran up to me smeared with dog poo she had rolled in. 

I held my nose and called out to Glenn and then sent a picture to BJ. And I laughed. With delight.  

I laughed while Glenn gave Annie a preliminary rinsing with the hose while BJ texted she was on her way with doggie shampoo!!  

I laughed as poor Annie endured her second shower of shame and at BJ's stream-of-consciousness admonishments as she lathered and rinsed. 

At long last, I was in the moment and having the best. time. ever. Watching poop run off an otherwise endearing dog. 

Starting next Monday, I'm to once again navigate sans chair, sans walker, sans brace. I'm hoping it won't be too long before I'm once again walking with a steady, if measured, gait and that my gimpy brain will eventually catch up. (But really, you had to be there.)

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