Last night I tried to pull in my stomach where the surgeon had made one of five incisions a month ago. I had spinal fusions from L3 to S1. It’s a painful operation and a challenging recovery, but I’m making progress daily due in no small part to laughing with Ray.
“It hurts to pull this in,” I said, pointing at the soccer ball protrusion on my stomach. “How am I going to exercise those muscles?”
“You’ll never have a six-pack again,” Ray said, looking sympathetically.
I’ve never had a six-pack. Maybe I did in my early 20s when I was lean. If you strained your eyes, you might have seen a collection of stomach muscles.
I’m a gym owner’s dream. Periodically, I’d make my “pilgrimage” to a health club, convinced that this would be the year I’d look like the guys in the posters outside. I’d excitedly sign up for the six-month package and then wouldn’t go back again.
“Well, I don’t accept that. Whoever came up with ‘No pain, no gain?’ He wasn’t in this body.”
“Oh, Ray,” I continued, “when I drop you off at the hospital tomorrow at 5 a.m., for your knee replacement, can I come in and sit with you? I don’t like the idea of you sitting there alone.”
“No,” he responded. “There’s so much paperwork to fill out. We’ll do it the same way when you were dropped you off for your spinal surgery. Do you remember?”
“All I remember is you pulling up to the front entrance of the hospital, my passenger door flying open, a strong foot at the middle of my back, a big shove from the car, me rolling across the driveway, scraping my face and hands, and then the sound of squealing tires. Are you sure that’s the way you want me to drop you off?”
“It actually wasn’t me,” Ray said. “I asked a neighbor to drop you off.”
“Would you like them to drive you?”
It’s a blessing to have a husband who laughs daily at my imagination, and who makes me laugh too. Laughter has kept us as light-hearted as possible through difficult times.
This morning, after my bathtub sit-and-spray shower, Ray put scar tape on my incisions. It’s supposed to help minimize the scar. The only incision I could see was in the front on the soccer ball.
“It looks as if I’ve had a Caesarean.”
“You did, but we couldn’t keep the baby. They said we’re too old.”
Ray and I are in our 70s, and have been together for over 48 years. Needless to say, our bodies today aren’t those of the 25 and 28-year-olds who when we met found such joy on the dance floor at the “1270” bar in Boston. We’ve faced our share of physical and emotional challenges, and we have not only survived but thrived through our awareness of mutual devotion but also through our humor. When we’re laughing, we know our angels are dancing.
