I’ve been thinking about my dad a lot. He lived to be seventy-nine and a half. I’m four and a half years short of his mark. Although I made a deal with my mom to live at least as long as she did, there’s no guarantee I’ll make another eighteen years. That’s the goal, but you never know.
I’m pretty healthy. I’ve never smoked. Not even once. When I did drink to excess, I was in my twenties, and early thirties, and even those times were rare. I don’t take any medication on a regular basis. I’ve got two titanium knees but have adjusted well to their addition. My biggest problem is I’m overweight. I’ve taken steps to drop some pounds, but my attempts to lose have met with limited results. I’m forty pounds lighter than when I retired, but still at least forty pounds too heavy. I’m about an inch and a half shorter too, so I’m more compact.
I’ve experienced some hearing issues during the past year. I’ve been seen by a couple ear, nose and throat experts. They haven’t made any final recommendations, but we’ve made some progress. My parents and sisters have experienced similar issues, so the day may come when I need to wear hearing aids. Not today, but perhaps someday.
I’ve had some recent struggles with my left foot. I’ve been battling plantar fasciitis for a year. I’m having success, but it’s a slow battle. I’ve been fitted for a brace which I wear upon occasion, wear shoe inserts all the time, and went through a round of physical therapy last winter. I’m currently completing a second.
I’m able to do most of the things I like, but I’m aware of my limitations. I gave up water skiing over thirty years ago. I was never great, but I did enjoy the sport. I pulled my right hamstring during a trip around the lake and could hardly walk. I babied it for about a month and gave it another try. I pulled it again and gave the sport up. I enjoy watching others, but my time is long gone.
I was never a “runner” but enjoyed playing baseball, softball, wiffleball, and two-hand touch football with the kids. We played in the front yard of our lake home and graduated to the empty lot around the corner. Playing with the kids helped keep me young. The last time I played was with Brady and a couple of his friends. We played wiffle ball in the yard of his then new Hamilton home about ten years ago. I pulled my water-skiing hamstring again and gave up running altogether.
I had a flashback to my dad a couple of days ago while I was at physical therapy. I was doing a series of stretches, squats and leg lifts. My therapist had me hold on to the handrail of a piece of equipment to steady myself while doing the exercises. The apparatus was a set of three steps that led up to a four-foot-long platform with a second set of steps leading down. It’s a common piece of equipment found in every therapy facility I’ve visited.
While doing my leg lifts, I thought of my dad and Uncle Harry following one another up and down a set of similar stairs at Uncle Harry’s physical therapy facility. I shared the story with my therapist. Their parade took place twenty-three years ago. They did a series of exercises and sat holding hands after each set. They didn’t speak but communicated through their touch. Uncle Harry couldn’t speak, and Dad didn’t. It was the last time they were together.
I thought too of the significance of three steps. We had three steps leading to our front porch when I was a kid, and three steps from the back door into the kitchen. There were three steps leading into our home at Lake LeAnn and there’s three leading into our new condo. Three to the front door and three more in from the garage.
I’m not sure if the series of steps in my life has some deep meaning or their existence is just a coincidence. Maybe they’re part of a building code. Perhaps the guy who built the original therapeutic steps had three leading into his house. I’ll let you know if I figure it out.