Brittle Bones and Dense Diapers

After adopting four children in my first marriage, I was finally, miraculously able to give birth to two homemade babies when I was 41 and 44. Thus, even at my age (55 in 2005), I can identify with mothers of young children. I can also identify with older people because of my hearing loss (due to a craniotomy for a brain tumor), my memory loss, and my osteoporosis.

Being either pregnant or nursing for four-and-a-half years straight in my declining years, and avoiding exercise at all costs, I developed osteoporosis (the brittle bone disease) like a 70-year-old woman. Despite my taking prescription drugs, herbs, and extra calcium, I have broken my bones twelve times in the past ten years: four times legs, three times ribs, two times feet, two times wrists, and one time toe. Even as I "write," my husband, Mike, is typing for me. Three days ago, I shattered my wrist at a mother-daughter activity at church.

I'm only telling you all this so you'll feel really sorry for me. I don't mind suffering in silence, as long as everybody knows about it.... Actually, self-pity is the best kind, because you always know it's sincere. I'm not complaining, mind you, because I've heard that the more you complain, the longer the Lord makes you live.

When Evan was a year old, two of my—both of my—all of my legs were broken at the same time. I had to spend a month on the bed, only able to crawl to the bathroom a few feet away. The first week that I missed church, four-year-old Merrie asked, "Mama, aren't you going to church today?" "No, I can't," I replied. "Why?" she asked. "Don't they like mommies crawling around at church?"

Mike carried his load and mine. He went to work every day, did the shopping, the laundry, tended the children, cooked for a household of nine, and did the cleaning. Well, scratch the cleaning part—I learned later why he forbade me to scoot down the stairs during that time.

Mike said he had learned two things about raising babies, though. First, if you can't get a toddler to take a pill, put the pill on the floor. Second, he learned that "you have to change a baby every day." He added, "And when those disposable diaper packages say '6 to 12 pounds,' they're not kidding.... That's all those things will hold!"

Knowing now how important weight-bearing exercise is in maintaining bone mass and preventing fractures, I have become a dedicated treadmiller. However, I hate to sweat. For that matter, I hate to exercise, mainly because it's so boring. So, I check out large-print books from the public library and read them during the otherwise endless 30 minutes on the treadmill. (The books don't help with the seat, however.)

I paid two dollars at a yard sale for my first treadmill. With a price like that, I requested that the owner prove to me that it really worked. He did, and it did. But, at home when I actually mounted the thing and turned it on, it immediately sprang into motion at the rate of approximately 300 miles per hour, almost knocking my teeth out on the bar in front of me. (Do they give refunds at yard sales?)

I think it was at the same yard sale that I paid three dollars for a wheelchair. You never know when you might need one. I knew that it worked. My children were small at the time, and they delighted in my pushing them together, in the wheel chair, on walks in the neighborhood. The reactions of passing motorists were interesting. Some grinned broadly with a thumbs-up sign. Others demonstrated more compassion as their expressions reflected pity for this mother and her "crippled" children.

My wrist was broken three nights ago while playing a dangerous sport—volley ball with a beach ball, mothers against the daughters. Hey, it was game point! Being such a competitive athlete, I dove to save the ball, my wrist breaking my fall, and the fall breaking my wrist.

Now my wrist is in a splint. The doctor tells me that, left alone, it would heal. He did not recommend leaving it alone, however, since the broken bone protrudes into the joint and it would grind and grate and I would get arthritis. Especially since I am a speed crocheter (I can crochet a baby afghan in a day, and I donate ten afghans per month to the Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake City), I need to have a good joint.

And so, in two days, the orthopedic surgeon—one specializing in hand repairs—will put me out (or put me under) and attempt to re-place my bones into their proper positions. If that doesn't work, while I'm still under the anesthesia, he will perform surgery, inserting nuts and bolts, plates and screws, pins and needles and baling wire—or whatever they use.

The morning after my injury and visit to the emergency room, Mike spoke to the children in our family devotional. "Children," he said, "we now have a wonderful opportunity to give service to our mother for the next while." Twelve-year-old Merrie exclaimed, "This will be so good, Mama. It will help you to be so grateful when you have the use of both hands again!"

Indeed, I have learned how many things one cannot do with the use of only one hand. On the other hand (no pun intended), I am amazed at how many things one can do with the use of only one hand. I hope to accept this test with grace and dignity.

Hey, this is mortality. Things break. Cars break down. Partnerships break up. I'm grateful to know that everything that really matters is still intact.