Last Time I Saw You, You Were an Old Lady

I hadn’t seen my younger daughter in almost 5 months.  


5 months ago, I needed a cane. I had to force myself to walk a few blocks to the nearby park. I had to sit, rather than run after my grandchildren.  I couldn’t join a game of kickball. Every time I moved it felt as if a knife was stabbing me in the hip. 


But in my mind, I still wanted to run after my grand children, kick the ball, climb the slides and play as I had always done.  It never occurred to me that I was acting old.  I didn’t feel old.  I just had a worn-out hip.  A replaceable part.  And I had an appointment with the surgeon.  Why would anybody think I was old?


But my daughter greeted me, "Last time I saw you, you were an old lady."


When I was my daughter’s age, I imagined that somehow people’s thoughts changed as they aged – they no longer wanted to run and kick balls and climb things.  I was never old – in that sense.  But indeed, I did act like the old people I used to watch and wonder what on Earth they were thinking – that they chose to sit rather than play.


Now, I could play again.  My thoughts hadn’t changed.  My body did.