All Dreams
Fall From the Same Sky
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Upbeat. Uplifting. Positive. I like
to fill my weekly articles with humor and hope. Re-read the title, an ancient Hopi
expression. That’s all the hope I have to give you.
This is my second week under house
arrest, chained to my walker. I know I am healing. I know it is a slow process.
My mind knows. My heart is unrealistic. I want surgery last week followed by
entering the 10 K this week and perhaps a full-on tri-athalon next week. I feel
like Snow White with the six dwarfs: restless, irritable, discontent, itchy,
ache-y and twitchy. I could identify a seventh dwarf, something like “frothing
at the mouth” but that seems excessive. And the six are more alliterative.
Truthfully, I was never that
athletic with my old hip and I’ve no intention of running with Rosie, my new
hip. I’m merely describing my frustrations.
To add insult to injury, this is the
week of Carnival in Mazatlan, a week chock full and overflowing with fun festivities,
parades, floats, dancers, “bandas”, mimes, jugglers, acrobats, the crowning of
royalty and generally whooping it up.
Not only that, Valentine’s Day is
around the corner. Don’t get me wrong; I treasure aspects of my solitude. But I
have to admit that coming home to rattle around in an empty house following
hip-replacement surgery, adds mud to my wallow. As long as I insist on
immersing in self-pity, I might as well dig deep and get down and dirty.
But if I were going to send out
lacy, frilly, old fashioned valentines to everyone I love and whom I know love
me, the cards would stack to make a tower. First on my list would be all of you
who have surrounded me with love and prayer and good wishes.
Next I would have to hand giant
valentine cards to a few people around me who have demonstrated love with skin
on it.
Almost daily emails or phone calls
from my daughters, Dee Dee and Shea, friends Dick and Jane, Shirley, Kathy,
Richard and others, mean more than the sun and moon to me.
My immediate neighbors, Ted and
Frank, check several times daily to make sure I am okay and to get me anything
I might need. Ted’s girlfriend, Theresa, cleaned my house and refused to take
payment beyond a heart-felt hug. Frank brought me a chunk of chocolate cake.
Carlos refilled my prescriptions and
took money to pay my electric bill, a whopping seventy-six pesos. He and Selena
are on call for me any time I need them.
Sylvia and Reuben from the Luncheria
at the corner, deliver meals to my own table on week days. Reuben goes to the
market every morning at 5:30 to shop for the day’s supplies. All my food is
fresh and delicious. Sylvia comes to wash my feet, possibly the nicest gift of
all, and help me on with a clean pair of Hot Sox, my equivalent of support
stockings.
A special card goes to Dr. Valle, my
surgeon, who comes to my house to check progress, removed stitches, and bring
me some of my medicine. I know this is hard to believe, but it is part of the
full-meal deal that I paid for with hospitalization and surgery. I have only
good things to say about my medical treatment.
Well, mostly good things. Now I have
excessive exercises to do and orders to get out in the sunshine and walk, walk,
walk.
Wish I could say the same good words
for Mexican postal service. I would gladly send you each a real, homemade
valentine. Fifty or sixty percent of you might actually receive them. Probably in May.
With love, Happy Valentine’s Day.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
February 12,
2015
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