October 02, 2015
9/22My Dad fell yesterday.
As it's told to me, he fell four feet from a concrete slab onto more concrete attempting to disassemble and dispose of an entire dresser, by himself, at the apartment building he owns. He was very sore last night and only finally was convinced to seek medical care at the stern advice of my mother (if you could currently see the "Barb Look," you would understand).
He broke two ribs.
One of my biggest fears; realized. 75 years old and trying to do it all himself, as per usual.
The man has no off switch. He has no quit button. No sense of limitations.
Just like his daughter.
Well, it's taken me many years of sustained injuries (pre-thirties, mind you) to finally come to a place of understanding with inanimate objects. Although they all have a balance point, not always do I have a balance point, and therefore the likelihood of injuring myself attempting to move said objects has greatly increased based on my own proclivities.
Sure, I was rock star when it came to motorcycles. Pushing them (cruisers old and new, sport bikes, scooters, etc.) backwards, uphill, at an angle wasn't much of an issue while I was young and conditioned but who knows what havoc I wreaked on my shoulders that now can barely hold a full pitcher of water without incident. It's all about the angle of the dangle. The moment I reach into the fridge wrong or go to hug someone, I feel the pull of a dislocation station.
The body has limits, people!
25 or 75 -- you cannot do it all! You need help sometimes.
Don't be the martyr, don't be the hero, don't be the "man."
Easy to say since I'm not the man and he has done it all for all this time but still...
It's not easy raising parents.
My Dad has always been my savior. My strong hand. My firm supporter. My biggest ally. The manly man doing it all...
Now he's not always going to be that.