No Bending, Lifting, Twisting

Each day was an unending maze of projects, each scribbled on a yellow Post-it and taped to a kitchen cabinet door, our official to-do list. John continued to open boxes, unwrap mysterious objects, and store them at my direction, hoping we remember where next month. BLT (no bending, lifting or twisting) rules limited me to hours of flattening and folding rumpled paper at the end of the dining room table that wasn’t cluttered with stuff. It was the only way to keep unpacking chaos at bay and, at the end, we gifted it all to folks who needed packing materials. The work restored my upper body flexibility and burned calories (always welcome), but in the evenings I felt like overcooked cold linguine—limp, sticky and knotted. Our progress was sluggish—I was the tortoise in this race. John needed help. I couldn’t keep up. We needed rescuing.

Slumped over a pile of paper, my trumpeting mobile roused me from a stupor. It was a friend with an offer to fly in to pay us back for our help, nursing her through shoulder surgery during the pandemic (Mostly it was John cooking and me cleanig the catbox everyday.) After rushing to ready a bedroom, we dashed to the airport and chauffeured her home. Not only did her extra pair of hands make quick work of the boxes, her design sense empowered us to arrange furniture, hang artwork, and do a bit of recreational shopping. Such a trooper! She slept on our less than perfect sofabed which set her back aching by the end of the ordeal. Ouch!

Every night we took down the stickies for the projects we accomplished and added new ones that emerged during the day’s work. John battled unexpected electrical and plumbing repairs, appliance and closet installations while I fiddled with kitchen drawers, cabinet arrangements and clothes sorting. (If you ever move from cold climate to hot one, start by giving away 75% of your clothes. We didn’t.) However, as long as we could see progress, our body parts were still functioning, and there were no cuts or bruises that needed more than a splash of peroxide and a bandaide, we slumbered, too tired to snore—dead to the world—until we declared victory.

The tipping point came when John found his recipe folders. He fancies himself a chef and I would never, ever do anything to dissuade him. What wife wouldn’t want a husband that prepares dinner every night? His made me and my tummy blissfully happy; so happy that I embraced, in full, my official post dinner scullery maid job.

With internet and Wi-Fi finallyinstalled (and working), I knew all would be okay in this strange land called Florida. We were connected to the world and we relished the breezy, balmy winter evenings and brilliant days beach walking . (Need I remind you it’s only five minutes away from our house?)

Throughout this of time planting our roots, I was a devoted recovering acolyte, stimulating my spine growth at night, wearing my back brace in daylight, and executing daily physical therapy exercises to strengthen my flacid core and leg muscles.

February 8th marked my surgery’s three month anniversary. Instead of giving myself presents, I threw my body against the x-ray machine one more time, sending the results to my surgeon in Washington, DC. It was he who must be obeyed; the judge who decide whether I was sufficiently mended so I could loose the equipment. Fidgiting, nervous and bugged-eyed after a sleepliess night, I sat with phone in hand, waiting for my surgeon’s call.

Good news! He declared me well-fused. No more BLT rule. I could do what I wanted, he said. Really? Yes, he said. Wow! I was free to be me. My Florida lifestyle could begin and I believed writing might be possible again.