One of my favorite sayings is: Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right.
I have proven this to be true many times in my life. These magic words helped me achieve so many goals that logic deemed unlikely, if not impossible. Recently, however, I have been struggling with a problem I have been unable to conquer. This time, no matter how forcefully I tell myself “I think I can,” the truth is I can’t.
George Clooney, Torino; Wikimedia Commons
This particular challenge is proving to be unsurmountable — literally.
It’s a 3-inch curbstone. I have had a couple of falls recently. The time before last, I broke my shoulder. When the orthopedic doctor finally discharged me after a series of follow-up visits, I asked him if I had any restrictions.
“Yes,” he said. “Don’t fall.” So of course I did — at the door of my building when I got home. And of course I couldn’t get up.
Fortunately, two neighbors happened by and got me to my feet, or I would still be there waiting for the season’s first snow to cover me.
The battery of my cell phone had died, and no I don’t have an emergency call pendant, and yes I will get one.
Meanwhile, the fear of tumbling again has made me so paranoid that I am paralyzed when faced with something as innocuous as a curb. I can get one foot on top of it, but the mere thought of raising the second foot off the ground to complete the task turns me to stone, even if I have a cane to support me. Despite my age and the fact that I have had two hip replacements and two creaky should-have-been-replaced-but-never-were knees, I know I am able to perform this ridiculously simple action physically. Of course I can. But unless I have a railing, tree trunk, signpost, trash barrel, or the arm of a helpful passer-by to hold onto, my brain won’t let me.
And it’s not just curbstones. My phobia has extended to even very low-incline ramps. As for escalators, forget about them. Not only are the steps moving, but so is the handrail. You might as well ask me to scale Everest without the help of a Sherpa.
It’s not that I’m not trying to conquer this irrational fear. I signed up for a series of physical therapy sessions to help my balance (and my unbalanced mind); and for a while I thought it was going to work. After a few weeks, my wonderful, incredibly patient therapist actually had me stepping over shoe-box size obstacles she had set up at intervals on the floor. I couldn’t believe it! I was cured! Not.
The next time I went to therapy, those shoe boxes looked like they could have housed Gulliver’s boots, with lots of room to spare. My heart pounded, I started sweating profusely. I could not have walked over them if George Clooney was waiting for me on the other side with outstretched arms. And I love George!
I begged my therapist to let me do the exercise inside an area with parallel bars so I could grab them if I lost my balance, but she said that would not help me gain confidence. Instead she marked out a grid on the floor with tape for me to maneuver around. Tape. Flat on the floor. Unbelievably, I couldn’t do it. This wasn’t possible, I thought. I mean, I could walk if there was no tape on the floor, but I could not step over the stupid tape! To make matters worse, that night while surfing the Net, I stumbled (bad choice of words!) upon a story about a woman just a few years younger than me who wins medals running hurdles!
I obviously need help. A psychiatrist? A hypnotist?? A lobotomist???
Wait! Before I resort to brain surgery, there’s one more thing I can try. A plea to Saint Anthony. In the past he has helped me find many lost items — my cell phone, my keys, my glasses — even my car in a five-story parking garage. Maybe he can also help me find my lost confidence!
It’s worth a shot.
©2019 Rose Madeline Mula for SeniorWomen.com
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