The White-haired Lady on the New Step

Kay, with her peculiar Charlie Chaplin gait, walked by carrying her cane. She was on her way to the ladies' room, a break from her hour on the NewStep stationary bike at my gym. Her white hair only hinting at her ninety years. On her way back to her bike, she stopped to answer, “How are you doing today, Kay?”

“Oh, my one leg is shorter than the other after the surgery, and I don’t walk as well,” she answered, in her German accent.

 After the big ice storm, Kay’s neighbor could not move her own garbage can herself. So Kay was moving it for her when Kay’s foot slipped. She fell hard on the concrete driveway and crushed her pelvis. After surgery, she convalesced in the rehab facility, the only one in town.

Ten years ago, my father-in-law was at that center for two weeks. He became depressed at the bleak atmosphere in the room. I visited him every day. We sat on the front porch, watched the trees sway in the wind, and smelled the flowers blooming by the walkway as visitors walked by.

Kay was there for three months, unable to move around, her body in a gurney, trussed like a roast turkey with its wings tied.

And yet here she was, unaware of what a feat that had been.