I don’t handle change well — especially if it means that I can’t do the things I usually do.
Three weeks ago, my back texted loud emojis to my brain when I suddenly twisted and bent over to pick up a fallen box. This act of ergonomic unconsciousness crumpled my frame onto the kitchen floor and had me (almost) crying for my mommy. Instead, my shrieks summoned Susan, my wife, and our Lilly, the Boston terrier, from the den.
Two hours of on-and-off ice packs, a trip to urgent care and one MRI later, I learned that part of the disc between my fifth lumbar and first sacral vertebrae had squished out into my spinal canal. And there was no stuffing it back. Bottom line: I would not be doing any heavy lifting for a while — if ever.
I missed three days of work, the first of which I used to curse my aging body and brood that I was, indeed, useless. At home and at work.
But mine was just one opinion.
While reading a tome on retirement planning — which might be coming sooner than I thought — our seven-year-old Lilly hopped onto the couch and faced me. Frosted hairs now ensconce her bugged-out eyes that still sparkle with wonder. Over the past several months, we’ve cut our weekend walks from three-and-a-half to two miles as I’ve noted she needs to take more breaks. She still scampers across the floor to retrieve her stuffed hedgehog, but now tires after 15 tosses rather than 20. Lilly is changing, too, though I haven’t enjoyed her any less.
Lilly and I locked eyes. What coursed through her little doggie brain at that moment, I’ll never know. Lilly then curled herself into a ball and pressed her back against the crest of my left butt cheek, the precise location of my throbbing pain. She sighed and fell asleep.
I may be changing, but Lilly embraces me. So does my wife.
At a time when most people are winding down in their careers, Susan built a psychotherapy private practice from scratch. For her skill at handling a sometimes crazy mate, she is infinitely more beautiful now than when we met.
Our Lilly still whirls like a dervish sometimes when other dogs appear, though much less so than when she was a pup. Yes, she’s responded to our behavioral interventions. But she’s also mellowed with age.
I wouldn’t trade either of my ladies for a newer model.
Change doesn’t mean we’re finished. It means we’re only just beginning.
Each and every one of us has a “warranty” that will expire someday. When that is, no one knows. What I do know is that as long as I can give and receive love I have a place here in this world. There is plenty of work to be done — and loving beings to share the load as we all change and grow together.
And a little dog shall lead us.