Wee steps and slow

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

Waiting. That's what we've been doing. Waiting for the drugs to work, for the infection to abate, for the pain to go away, for the snow to fall, for Christmas to come.

Waiting. That's what we continue to do. Monday we heard the forecast: a major winter storm. Monday we heard another forecast: my mother-in-law’s foot has to be amputated.. Silence then, and terror, too. Not the artificial kind buoyed by hysterical newscasters who caution people to bottle water and stock up on batteries because of some potential danger. Butl terror fueled by the inevitable.

I tell her the news as she lies in a hospital bed.

"The pain seems to be better?" I begin, sitting next to her.

"It is - a little," she answers.

"It's been a rough road?" I say. And she nods in agreement.

"The road's about to get even rougher," are the words I use to prepare this 85-year-old woman for surgery that will sever half her leg. She weeps for a minute, silent tears, an automatic, physical response. "This is a tough one," she whispers.

We say nothing for a while. But then she rises up, somehow, sits a little straighter and pronounces to herself and to me and to the God she says has never deserted her, "What is, is. This is just another bump in the road. It's a big bump, but it's something I'll have to get through."

Her son arrives, then her daughter, her granddaughter. All day, friends and family appear and ask, "How are you, really?" And all day she assures everyone that she is fine, that yes, this is not pleasant, and that of course she would rather not have to go through this. But others have. And if they can, she can, too.

A social worker explains the details of the procedure. A few days after the operation Grandma will be well enough to be transferred to a rehabilitation facility and be fitted with a prosthesis. Next week at this time she'll be up and about.

I always knew my mother-in-law was strong. But I never knew how strong.

Friends arrive to support her and she supports them. Friends attempt to ease her burden and she eases theirs. We pray for the strength to walk with her down this unfamiliar, treacherous road. We are afraid, for her, and for ourselves. "Don't worry," she says as we kiss her goodnight. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Tomorrow comes and the world is white and silent. The predicted nor'easter has arrived. The inevitable is happening.

Waiting then, for the snow to stop, for the operation to be over, for the phone to ring, for what's next on the journey to begin.

We borrow Al's snowblower. We dig out the cars. The phone rings. The operation is over and she is doing well.

Last year, Grandma received a Christmas card from her cousin Etta in Scotland. Etta wrote that she had had her foot amputated. "It's not that bad," she said. She was getting around. The letter was cheerful, hopeful, optimistic. Grandma put the card on the kitchen table, looked down at her foot, in bad shape even then, and counted her blessings.

This year she continues to count them. "The road is seldom smooth," she has told me at least a million times. "But there's no sense griping about it. You have to take what you get and you have to make the best of it."

Waiting now, for what comes next - Christmas, rehab, more snow, learning to walk, more bumps in the road. "Wee steps and slow," is her motto and her creed.

Waiting, to take those steps with her in the lead.