I Am Bi.....

I Am Bi

         I am "bi". People must have suspected this and finally, I am ready to admit it. It's not a complete shocker, after all, I've displayed the tendencies for years.                                                                                                    

         Am I bipolar? No, not that I'm aware of, although I'm often of two minds.                                                                                                                        

         Am I bilingual? Je parle francais un petit peu--- comme ci, comme ca.                                                                                                                                  

         Am I biracial? Does being of Irish and English descent count?                    

         I've only surpassed the fifty-year mark, so bicentennial doesn't apply to me.                                                                                                              

         Am I a biped? Why yes I am, although I seem to have two of the left variety, ( two incompatible feet ). The pair of them still have not resolved their issues.They are why I am "bi" or "BI". I am balance impaired. Despite years of effort, I am unable to put my best foot forward. Even standing on my own two feet is risky.It's as if my feet are a dysfunctional couple agreeing to disagree. I hear their mumbles and grumbles as they sullenly shuffle along. They hesitate. They stumble.                                                                                          

         " Why don't you watch where you're going?" "Just once, I'd like to take the first step." "Come on, pick up the pace." "Oh, so now you want me to lead." "You couldn't warn me about that bump/dip/rock/chair leg/carpet ahead?" "Are you coming or not?" "Oh really? You're just going to stop here?"                                                  

         Too often their lack of coordinated teamwork has resulted in slips, slides, trips and tumbles. They seem to enjoy the flailing arms and panicked footwork of a near miss. The only thing I'm sure of is that I'm not sure-footed.                                                                                                              

         Yes, my feet lack confidence, especially when confronted by a set of stairs. Stairs, any stairs; short, tall, wide, or thin, indoors or out, concrete or wooden, stairs are our nemesis. Stairs seem to lurk everywhere ready to taunt us. For something built with risers they can be so difficult to ascend. Steps become "stubbers". We've experienced more than our fair share of ups and downs, ( although tripping up is less painful. )                                                                                                                        

         Two steps up, ten steps up, or nineteen steps up; my feet and stairs are not on the same level. All of us have only seen eye to eye when I've fallen. It's at this point that stairs must concede that my "landing" is not an area reached after a successful climb, but an abrupt answer to gravity.                                                                                                    

         One of my first memorable stair dates occurred in high school. I'd had recent knee surgery, my right leg was encased in a clumsy plaster cast and neither of my feet understood the crutches. They all rebelled at the top of a staircase forcing me into a free fall. As I bounced off each step, I remember marvelling at how I'd managed to part the thick wave of students and hold onto those useless crutches. Amazingly, before I crashed to the last step, ( and risked far more than fresh bruises ), I was caught by a strong and quick-thinking young man who'd been passing below. He was a competitive pairs' figure skater familiar with "handling" girls. Later this hero became my husband and he's correct when he says that I fell for him.                                                            

         Another time, I completed a fall down stairs of the basement variety. Clearly, my feet felt I could descend the steps without their help. They failed to consider the possibility of an injury to one of them, yet the tendons and ligaments of my right foot were torn. Neither of my feet were happy with the Frankensteinish boot cast that necessitated an unfamiliar rocking gait. Too many times, they teetered and tottered.                                                                                                              

         Unbelievably, these same basement stairs tripped us up again, resulting in a fractured right thumb. So, on a cold November morning, ( specifically, the day after I broke my thumb and could not report to work as a PSW to assist clients with personal care ), I decided to bathe my two Shetland Sheepdogs. Was this because I had time on my hands with the kids at school, my hubby at work and nothing to do beyond the usual Mom stuff? I don't know, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, ( despite the fresh plaster cast on my dominant hand and forearm ). I did think to prepare by wrapping my cast in a plastic bag and entering the bathroom in bare feet. I shampooed, scrubbed, rinsed, and rubbed down the dogs with no incident, ( other than being soaking wet too ).                                                                                                                        

         All of this created a pile of towels that had to be carried to the basement laundry room via the same stairs I'd fallen down just the evening before. This time there were no problems and as I returned to the main floor, I heard the familiar sound of mail being dropped into the mailbox. I stepped out onto my front deck, damp and barefoot, for what was supposed to be a quick grab. As I reached into the mailbox, the door closed behind me and locked. Had it been helped by one or both dogs??                                                                                                              

         There I was, stranded, with the still wet dogs draped over the no-dogs-allowed couch. They stared intently at me through the window, ears up, heads cocked, tails wagging---- waiting for me to come back inside. ( After all, it was a novelty for me to be home during a weekday.)

         This was years before I owned a cellphone and the neighbours were away. I could've waited for hours until the kids came home to rescue me, or I could've forced my feet to walk several blocks to the school where my son had a key. ( It was the least they could do for me.) They weren't too pleased, and, yes, they stumbled a bit, but the feet wanted back in the house.                                                                                          

         The impromptu hike to the school not only provided me with a house key, it prevented a charge of forgery against my grade-school age son. His teacher took one look at me and realized that the strange letter Chris had given her that morning was indeed authentic. I'd dictated it, he'd written it, and I'd signed with a scrawl.                                        

         As a balance- impaired biped, I am somewhat of an expert concerning the types of falls associated with stairs. There is the dramatic head-over-heel tumble similar to the motion of laundry in a washing machine. It's an uncontrollable ride, intense while it lasts. There is the jarring butt bounce played out in slow motion, each drop on a step emphasized. There is the slide in which the speed increases and the steps are skimmed. All of the above may involve desperate attempts to brace or brake.                                                                                          

         I'd like to believe that my best falls are behind me, like my backside, ( and lord knows I've relied on this padding before ). I'd like to think that my contrary feet will embrace teamwork and discover coordinated footwork. Perhaps one day I can claim that I was once "Bi", ( balance impaired ), and then I can just " Be", ( balance enhanced )! If this is unattainable, I can always pen my memoirs ..... Sprains, Strains, And Contusions.