My kid sister is truly a marvel. Math whiz, scientist, teacher, environmentalist, grandmother and all those things some of us never dreamt she would be. There was even a time long ago when those in our family might have voted her the weakest link. No longer. Not by a long shot.
She has just emerged from surgery number six on her right ankle, which was smashed in a riding accident when she was a senior in high school. Bones were set, pins installed, pins removed, bones fused, screws implanted, screws unscrewed. Through all of these flawed procedures, she’s maintained a stoic calm, always confident that the next surgery will finally allow her to wear real shoes-not stiletto heels, she’d be thrilled with just loafers-and to walk without a boot and crutch. She has born each disappointment with equanimity I could never muster. I’d have killed somebody.
Oh, I’ve had my share of broken bones: a shin, two ankles, a wrist, three ribs, an elbow, a tailbone, a few toes and a finger or two. My response was always the same. This will heal on its own, won’t it, Doc? Most did, and without benefit of orthopedic surgeons.
I guess Cindy had to take the hit for both of us. Better she than me. I think hospitals and doctors are to be avoided at all cost. And while we’re at it, I owe Cindy an apology for something I wrote after her last year’s surgery. I made an ill-considered reference to pain medications turning patients into whining wimps, or some such cruel remark. I think she took it to heart-I didn’t mean for her to, I promise-because this time she listened to my Andrew Weil tape, “Sound Body Sound Mind,” and otherwise prepared herself for the ordeal. The result was miraculous.
Though the surgery was more extensive (about four hours of plate insertion, bone graft, etc.), she came out of it clear headed and upbeat. I was impressed.
The worst thing about her stay at Saint John’s was the staff’s inability to grasp the fact that she doesn’t eat cows, any part. The nurse says, “Oh, you’re lactose intolerant.” Cindy says, “No. It’s not milk sugar I can’t have, it’s every part of the cow: meat, cheese, whey, gelatin, all of it.” Nurse, obviously disbelieving, fails to mark whatever notice goes to the food staff. Cindy is served absolutely nothing she can eat except steamed broccoli. So every day I brought fresh organic fruit, salads, tuna or turkey sandwiches and gingerbread from the Whole Foods Market nearby. We pass the time doing crosswords and I read her the funniest op-ed pieces (most of which are not written by humorists).
After she was released, she came home with me for a week to recover. This is good because everything at my house is on one floor and she doesn’t have to go up and down stairs on her bum, a real drag, so to speak, when you’re bone thin. There’s also nothing here she needs to do, and being fiercely independent, she resents the fact that she might need help.
This worked pretty well considering she’s a neat freak and I’m a pack rat. She says we have a different tolerance level for clutter. She is kind. I, on the other hand, am somewhat intimidated by her penchant for organization. I do resent the time I waste looking for misplaced things, knowing however, that on my deathbed I will not wish I’d spent more time getting organized.
She asks what would happen if I just cleared everything off my desk. It’s a big desk, an old oak library table. Besides the computer, a lamp, a telephone, a pencil holder, a plastic case of floppy disks and a three-slot mail organizer, there are six stacks of news clippings, bills, receipts and mail awaiting their final resting places. I try. After an hour of sorting, filing and shredding, I manage to clear an area about two feet square, which I know will be covered again before the dust settles.
She explains this is the law of entropy-that left to their own devices, things break down into disorder. She quotes Isaac Asimov: Unless special effort is made to reverse the order of things, neat rooms will tend to get messed up, things remembered will tend to be forgotten and so on, perpetually increasing entropy. Randomness is an indication of entropy.
And I thought randomness, like spontaneity, was sort of a good thing.
Our math whiz explains how to convert 130.6 on my digital scale to pounds and ounces, a formula understood by the average high school freshman. I feel like an innumerate dolt. She weighs herself and declares she hasn’t lost much. I remind her the cast probably weighs something.
We’re even.
She redeems herself by making a pinhole camera out of white cardboard to watch the solar eclipse and showing my grandson how it works. I look through a piece of welder’s glass, then realize I want to be alone outdoors to feel the effect. I ponder what primitive people thought during such events. It’s magical, if maybe a bit random.
After a week, I return Cindy to her home-perfectly arranged in advance, pantry and fridge stocked-where she will not let me help her do anything. She has a week’s worth of mail on the counter, which she dispatches in about 10 minutes flat. I give her the freeway salute and return home to ponder the law of entropy.