I have always been a fairly independent person. Unless moving a refrigerator or a piano is involved, I try to do what needs to be done by myself.
I am no longer young, but my mind is still in fairly good working order. I manage my own finances. Under normal circumstances I do my own shopping. I clean my own apartment. I do my own laundry. I haul out my own trash. Unlike some of my vintage that I have seen, I do not spend my days with a remote in my hand. I am into being as prepared as possible for whatever comes along, so I can and dehydrate food and little by little, stock up on other needed supplies. I have hobbies that keep me interested. I have pets that keep me smiling. I usually take care of myself pretty well.
My kids have been really good to see that my needs are taken care of. One will call and tell me they are going to the Farmer's Market and what would I like them to pick up for me. Other times when something like a bad cold keeps me home, they will pick up a few groceries for me and drop them off. If I need to go somewhere that I can't get to by bus, they are more than willing to take me there. I have good kids.
I will not here go into a litany of physical complaints. Anyone who reads regularly knows what they are, for I have been known to whine now and again. This spring and summer, however, have been a bear. It has been one thing right after another. I have been dealing with arthritis since age 15. By now I know that no matter how many pretty little pills my doctor prescribes, it isn't going away. I will have good days and bad days, but it is not going away.
Asking for help with anything is one of the toughest things for me. I hate it. But a couple of days ago, my youngest daughter read me the riot act. Poor thing, she called me right after I had spent a considerable amount of time trying to shove swollen feet into shoes, with no success. I was grumpy. When she asked what was wrong, I told her. Wouldn't have, had I not been in such a foul mood, I suppose, but there you are.
That's when she reminded me that I have grown children who are happy to help. And she let me know in no uncertain terms that they can't help if I don't tell them when I need help. I'm not sure, but I believe I have been verbally spanked.
So, with help from my offspring (I thank God every single day for them.), we will work out a plan for the bad days. Ideally, I should live in an apartment either on ground floor or where there are elevators. My landlord has talked about installing a chair lift device on the front stairs. I will talk with him about that, because I really don't want to move. My bank is within sight of my building. The bus stop is less than half a block away. The post office and library are within two blocks. Everything I need is right here.
The stairs are the big problem right now. Going down is easy. Coming back up - not so much. In any event, some decisions will be made soon. And I will work on asking for help when necessary. But I will still hate it that I have to do so.
Getting old really ain't for sissies.
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