Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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A Naked Perspective from the Floor

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Last Friday, I fell while getting out of the shower, hit the hard tile floor with enough force to cause a seismic reaction, and damaged my ego and my well-worn body in less than two seconds. I hollered from the pain. The scene duplicated the well-known commercial of the woman who has fallen and can’t get up, except I didn’t have a camera crew to rescue me. I was alone, couldn’t reach my cell phone, and my husband was out of town on business and wouldn’t be home for eight hours. So, I laid on the floor, naked, wet, and shivering in agony, and thought of what I should do.

My first reaction was to assess the damage. When I moved, sharp pain tore through my left hip, rolled like hot barbed wire down my leg, and exploded through my knee like dancing devils – the same knee that endured surgery six years ago. My second reaction was to curse my foolishness. We had sold our house, and I had spent a month moving boxes, carrying items from upstairs in the former house, and loading and unloading heavy, bulky stuff. My legs were weak, but on Friday I was in a hurry to deliver the keys and garage door openers to the new owners. I dashed out of the shower and into a painful change of plans.

For the next thirty minutes on the floor, my mind wandered to various topics.

Death

I don’t fear death. I subscribe to the Death with Dignity organization in Oregon. I witnessed the painful deaths of my family members who suffered from long illnesses, dementia, and cancer. If I can’t remember my children’s names or if I’m diagnosed with a fatal illness, I’m not opposed to having a party and a pill. However, I hope to die like my Grandma Ambrose. She was 92 and sitting in her favorite chair working a crossword puzzle when she passed from a sudden heart attack. That scenario contains more dignity than dying naked and alone on the bathroom floor of a rented house.

Life

I’m grateful for a splendid life with only a few broken bones and jagged daggers in my back. I’ve lived more years than my father and both brothers. Letters on my license plate are an abbreviation of “Carpe Diem” for “Seize the Day.” I’m still seizing, although a bit slower.

Downsize Dilemmas

If I didn’t own so much crap, I wouldn’t need to move it, and it wouldn’t hurt my legs and back. The rental house we moved into is 60% smaller than the house we sold, so I donated furniture and other items, gave away family possessions, put furniture on consignment, and hauled countless bags of garbage to the dump. Still, I’ve filled a double garage with stuff. As I laid on the floor, I vowed, if I survived, to continue the purge.

Admitting Vulnerability

I was helpless, and I didn’t like that reality. There’s something humbling about being a chubby, naked, older, injured woman alone on the floor. It wasn’t my best look. So, while admitting I needed help, I opted for the only available choice: I prayed. I asked God to help me because I have faith in the power of prayer. I knew my guardian angels were weary and wanted to fly away to live on a tropical island, but I asked for them to give me strength. Slowly, I managed to sit up. I couldn’t move on the left side, but I could scoot on my right hip and pull myself with my arms. I moved into the closet to find clothes. It took an hour to get dressed, but I felt like an Olympic champion.

Call 911

I pulled myself to the counter and used a clothes hanger to reach my cell phone to call 911. I wanted to make it easy for paramedics, so I scooted to the front door and unlocked it. I held my purse with my driver’s license and medical cards and waited on the floor. The ambulance arrived and the paramedics examined my leg. After a lengthy evaluation, I decided to stay home. Waiting for hours in an emergency room on a Friday was not an attractive option. They wheeled my office chair to the hallway, helped me sit, and drove away. In hindsight, I joked too much so they probably didn’t take me seriously.

Diagnosis

Over the weekend, I remained in my office chair with an ice machine hooked to my knee and tried to get an appointment with my doctor. My husband made meals and cleaned the dishes, which was a great way to offset the pain. By Monday, the pain was stronger. I called and used my outside voice to demand to see my doctor. I drove myself to the appointment, struggled on crutches to get into the office, and received the first set of Xrays. My doctor arranged for an MRI, and the images revealed torn ligaments behind my knee, soft tissue injury in my leg, and damage to the gluteus medius muscle underneath my left buttock. The doctor said to rest for several weeks, ice the leg, and wait for the pending surgery (again) on my knee. I usually don’t follow orders, but I agreed.

Ruined Vacation

We had scheduled a week’s vacation starting March 11 in Scottsdale, Arizona with my son, his wife, and their darling daughter. Plans included golfing, going to the Zoo, enjoying fine dining, and relaxing in the cocktail pool of the rented house. Now, they’ll have the house to themselves, and I’ll toast them from my office chair.

There are several lessons to be learned from this latest episode of my crazy life. Slow down. Focus on strength and good health. Eliminate clutter. Ask for help. Allow a cute guy to make dinner. And, pray. On a positive note, now I have time to finish my next humorous book for women. Ironically, it’s titled Midlife Reboot – Humorous Stories of Rest, Resilience, and Renewal.”

(I know I’m not midlife, unless I live to be 138, but this title finishes the trilogy after Midlife Cabernet and Midlife Happy Hour.)

When Living Large isn’t a Compliment

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chubby lady belly

 

(Featuring on The Huffington Post, August 27, 2015)

It started as a fun golf game with another couple we enjoy. It ended with me wanting to stab myself with a knife. Life is like that sometimes.

We finished our round with a good score and returned to the club house for dinner. As we waited for the food, the man casually mentioned that his wife and my husband were lucky because they didn’t need to lose weight. I know it was an innocent remark by a good, middle-aged man but my ears heard this:

“You are a gross, undisciplined whale and so incredibly fat that you should put a sack over your body and hide in the women’s lounge. Too bad you don’t look like my beautiful, fit wife.”

My first reaction was to pick up my butter knife and slash my gums because 30 years ago I lost 12 pounds in one week after my wisdom teeth were removed. I thought that maybe I could duplicate that instant weight loss if I hurt myself. Obviously, this was a red flag warning that I should immediately leave the club and seek a counselor.

Truth: You never need to tell a woman that she has gained weight. She knows it. She avoids mirrors, hates photographs of herself, and loses the urge to shop for clothes. She doesn’t want to be reminded that her hips, belly, and back are padded with enough layers of protective fat to shelter a family of ten through the winter. She wants to be appreciated for her charm, wit, altruism, and talent. Tell her she’s fat and she’ll write about you.

I languish in good excuses. I was injured almost a year ago, ironically doing a high-impact exercise. My leg bone cracked and the meniscus tore on my knee. The pain was debilitating.  As a result, my exercise routine vanished as the extra pounds appeared. The only physical activity I got was when I ambled to the wine rack for medication. But, I still want and need to lose the weight I gained after the injury. I really do, but it’s not as easy any more, and my body seems to like living large.

The day after the golf humiliation, I wiggled into my workout clothes and plodded to the gym. I started with the exercise bike, plugged my earphones into the TV outlet, and found the news. Donald Trump was criticizing Megyn Kelly, an attractive newscaster I admire. I left the gym and drove to a coffee shop that offered fresh maple bars, and I used the butter knife to smear around the gooey frosting. I licked the knife and promised to hit the gym another day.

 

 

 

Let Grandma Sleep on the Floor

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b doll house 2

My wee grandbaby came for a play date, and after the obligatory tea party with assorted stuffed bears she turned to the doll house. I watched, amused, as she carefully positioned each piece of furniture and posed every character. Obviously, she decided it was time for bed.

The baby was tucked into the crib, the daughter napped on a bunk bed, and the dog was snoozing in the dog house, outside of course. Then she took the gray-haired doll and placed her on the floor instead of the bed.

“Why is Gramma on the floor?” I asked.

“So she won’t fall down and hurt her leg.”

Sometimes the innocent thoughts of toddlers are profound and gentle. I recently survived knee surgery, and my grandkids had seen me incapacitated with pain, hooked to an ice machine, and then hobbling around on crutches and a cane. I thought I was providing a good example by getting better and finally walking without assistance. But, she was still concerned that I might get hurt again. In her mind, if Gramma stayed on the floor, she couldn’t fall down.

I probably should obey that advice, but I have too much to do. However, I’ll consider being more careful, especially in the presence of little observers. They are learning that an injury can’t be cured every time with a Barbie Band-Aid and a kiss from Mommy. (Although those examples do have definite therapeutic and lasting value.)

As I get older, every second of every day, I’m reminded that this old gal ain’t what she used to be. I ache in new places, I don’t have as much energy as I once had, and body parts are moving south without my permission. Injuries take longer to heal, and sometimes I long for an afternoon nap. That phenomenon is new and a bit bewildering.

In a recent attempt to cheer up, I scheduled a hair appointment. My regular stylist was gone so I had a new hairdresser who looked as if she had just skipped in from recess. She told me she was excited to celebrate her 21st birthday by visiting her mother. I asked her if the mom would like a copy of my book Midlife Cabernet. She remarked that her mother wasn’t “that old” but maybe her grandmother would like it. I debated giving her a 20% tip, but of course I did and then shuffled out the door.

In my mind, I’m still 40. But then I realize my daughter is in her thirties, so one of us has the wrong age. I’ve appreciated the marvelous adventures on this glorious journey through the decades, and I look forward to many more. But now I’m tired and think I’ll go lie down. Maybe, just to be safe, I’ll do that on the floor.