A Splash of Exercise

A Splash of Exercise

by Ellen Resnick

 

“I’ll be right out,” my mother called from the bathroom.  A few minutes later, the door opened, and she shuffled into the living room where I stood waiting. 

“I didn’t know what to put on my feet, so I wore these,” she said, pointing to her toes.  “Do you think they’re okay?”  I looked down at her pink terry ballet slippers. 

 “Yes, Mom.  They’re fine.  We’re only going down to the clubhouse.” 

My eyes shifted back up to my mother’s face.  It glistened with color from the make-up she had just applied:  Peach-colored lips and rosy mauve cheeks.  The intense colors contrasted with the white full-length robe zippered top to bottom on her five foot, heavy-set frame.   A black patent leather pocketbook dangled from her wrist and she held a blue and green striped beach towel.  She was ready for her first water exercise class.

My parents had recently moved into a new, over-55 apartment building with an indoor pool.  A month before, a notice in the lobby announced the formation of a water exercise class to be held twice a week and boasted that the aqua instructor had been recruited from the local YMCA.

It wasn’t until two weeks after the start of the session that my mother told me about it.  “I can’t do that,” she said.  “I don’t swim, my balance isn’t good and besides, I don’t even have a bathing suit that fits me.”  The words came out with finality, as if daring me to challenge her. 

I had lost the battle on exercise many times before, but this time I knew I had to be persistent.  My mother’s life depended on it.  At 75 years old, Mom was 40 pounds overweight, diabetic and arthritic.  She suffered from chronic back pain and needed assistance when walking.  Despite this, she repeatedly ignored her doctors’ advice and the desperate pleas of her two daughters.  She didn’t know the first thing about fitness and had resigned herself to a sedentary life.  But deep down, Mom knew that if she didn’t do something soon, she would end up in a wheel chair.

I suggested that she observe the class to see if she might want to try it.  Afterwards, she called to tell me about it. “The women were having such a good time and the teacher took things really slow.”  Mom had spoken to the instructor after the class to explain her health issues and felt more confident with the teacher’s reassurances.

“I’m going to try it next week,” she announced. 

My reactions, in sequence, were:  surprise, happiness, and fear.  Surprise, because my mother had agreed to try the class so quickly; I had anticipated a lengthy period of persuasion.  Happiness, because she sounded so hopeful.  And fear, because Mom’s balance and agility were poor, and she didn’t swim.

“Mom, why don’t I go with you to your first class,” I suggested.  “I’ll help you down the steps and you’ll feel more secure in the water.” 

She sighed with relief. “That would be wonderful, Honey.”

On the day of her first class, we arrived early at the pool so Mom could take her time getting down the steps.  A gray-haired woman in a black bathing suit was already in the water, and she waved to my mother. 

“Hi Dorothy.  I’m so glad you came to class.  You’re going to love it.” 

Mom whispered to me later that the woman’s name was Phyllis and she was 91 years old. 

My mother put her pocketbook down on a table, unzipped her robe, lowered it to the ground and stepped over it.  She removed her pink slippers.  Leaning on my arm while we walked over to the edge of the pool, Mom confessed that her greatest fear was navigating the steps. As my mother eyed the metal bars leading down, I put my hand out for support. 

“No Ellen, I’ll need to be able to do this myself when you’re not here,” Mom protested.

Phyllis approached us and, in a soothing voice, gave my mother instructions on how to maneuver down the stairs.  “Hold onto the top bar with both hands and step down on the first step.  That’s the hardest one.” 

Mom bit her lip and grunted with pain as she followed Phyllis’s instructions. One down, four to go.  Phyllis guided my mother down, explaining how to stand and which bar to hold onto with each step. I stood close in case my mother needed help, but she didn’t.

With Phyllis’s outstretched hands welcoming my mother onto the floor of the pool, Mom took the last step and submerged her tense body into the warm comfort of the water.  She bent her knees and let the water flow over her shoulders.  As Mom closed her eyes, I quietly entered the pool and stood beside her.

“Aaahhh,” she sighed.  Then she opened her eyes and a grin appeared and spread across her face.  Mom thanked her new friend for helping her into the water. 

As we moved over where Mom could hold onto the side, more women came in.  They were probably in their 70’s like my mother, but clearly more agile.  They walked down the stairs with ease and greeted each other as they glided, arms outstretched, to the middle of the pool.  My mother introduced herself to the others and they exchanged names. 

After a few minutes, the women looked up at the clock on the wall, eager to begin the class.  At 10:25 a.m., a middle-aged, pony-tailed woman in a flowered tank and nylon shorts rushed through the door holding a huge sack filled with Styrofoam weights. 

“Hello, Pat,” the women sang in chorus. 

“Hi.  Sorry I’m late, but I’ll be with you in a minute.”  Pat dropped her bags and pulled out a pair of sneakers from a canvas bag.

“She wears sneakers in the pool?” my mother wondered out loud. 

“Those are special aqua sneakers that dry quickly and make it easier to walk in the pool,” one of the women explained.

 “What are you in the mood for today – rock or disco?” Pat asked the group.  It was unanimous: Disco.  As the music filled the room, the quiet, soothing ambiance changed to one of upbeat energy and fun.  My mother smiled and shook her head to the beat.

Pat quickly slipped into the pool and the women spread out in front of her.  “OK, let’s begin our stretches,” Pat announced, as she raised her arms over her head.  She called out instructions and led the class through a series of warm-up exercises.

Meanwhile, Mom stood off to the side and struggled to find her balance in the water.  She watched the smiling women and turned to me with worry.  “I can’t do this.”

“Mom, don’t worry.  This is your first time.  Just stand to the side, hold onto the edge, and do as much as you can.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” she said, as she moved over to grip the side of the pool.

Pat recognized my mother and immediately came over to reassure her.

“Just take things slowly, Dorothy, and only do what you feel comfortable with.”  My mother smiled feebly at the rest of the women and they all smiled back. 

After the warm-up, Pat increased the pace in tempo with the music; it was time to get their hearts beating faster.  She had the women marching, and then jogging in place.  Then she instructed them to walk across the pool.  My mother held onto the side, but she watched intently as she lifted her knees in a slow march.  The music was blaring, the women’s faces radiated, and they moved their limbs with pure joy.  I watched my mother’s face as she absorbed the energy from the room and smiled along with the others.  She was having fun.

After the aerobic session, Pat got out of the pool and opened her black, netted sack.  She handed the foam barbells to the women closest to her and they handed them around until everyone had a set.  Back in the water, the instructor guided the group through a variety of underwater movements to firm triceps and biceps.  Mom held the barbells at the surface of the water, using them for support and balance.

When the class finished, Pat moved toward my mother and me.  “You see, I can’t swim,” my mother explained.  “And I have arthritis, so bending is painful.”

Pat showed her some movements she could practice: raising each leg to the side, lifting her knees in a standing march, stretching her arms and shoulders. 

“You did great today, Dorothy, and you’ll find that it will get easier with each class.  I hope that you’ll come again next week.”

“Oh, I’ll be back.  You can be sure of that,” Mom said with a smile. 

The next week I got a phone call from my mother.  “Is my swimming partner going to join me this week?”  “You bet,” I replied. 

 

Postscript:  My mother cancelled our appointment to go to the next water exercise class, and she never went again.  She died two years later after a massive stroke.  

 

 

 

The Right Father's Day Card

The Right Father's Day Card

by Ellen Resnick 

 

I walk into CVS and head for the greeting card section to pick out a Father’s Day card for my Dad.  As usual for this time of year, the Father’s Day display is huge, rivaling even that of the birthday section. To narrow the selection, I focus on the “From Daughter” grouping. 

 

Hallmark offers a wide variety of cards so that, depending on your relationship with the recipient, you can find one that feels right--that sounds authentic, like you could have written it yourself.  For Father’s Day, the choices are: dramatic (“The gifts you’ve given me have shaped my life”); sugary (“I love you too much for words”); contemplative (“Wishing you quiet moments and peaceful reflections”); childish (“Hey ewe!  I’m glaaad you’re my Daaaad”); and humorous (“How many Dads does it take to change a light bulb?”).

 

As I randomly pull cards from the rows to read them, I hold onto the finalists and then make my selection.  This year, I search for one that expresses my love for my dad, but doesn’t give him too much credit for being a positive influence in my life.  I choose a simple one with three colorful hearts and a grosgrain green ribbon.  I like the card’s child-like quality and rounded edges, and the saying is heartfelt, but not too effusive to be untrue.

 

Just wanted to remind you

that you have

a very special place

in my heart…

you always will.

 

Happy Father’s Day

 

Back home, I write in careful script “I love you, Dad” and pen my name before dropping the card in the mail.

 

At the age of 84, Dad does have a special place in my heart - but that was not always the case.  In fact, in my teens and 20’s, there was very little room in my heart for him, and he didn’t hold a very special place in my life either.  I felt indifferent about my father, and when I did feel something toward him, it was usually disappointment or anger.  It was tough to find an appropriate Father’s Day card during those years.  I usually ended up buying a humorous card, or one that was meant for a father who was not your own—the kind that included the good wishes without the goo.  Both types were safe, lacking emotion.

 

My father worked hard in his business selling commercial refrigerators to restaurants, delis and grocery stores.  Leaving the house early in the morning, he spent most of the day in his car, before returning in the evening.  My family was together every night at the dinner table, but I don’t remember much of any substance discussed.  Then my father would retire to his den, prop his feet up on a footstool and watch sit-coms on TV. 

He is certainly a good man, a nice man, but he was a weak and ineffectual father and husband.  Mom was the dominant force in our family and he left the decision-making, household and child-rearing responsibilities to her.  My mom’s sage advice and nurturing nature contrasted sharply with my father’s superficial presence in my life. 

Although she was a kind-hearted and loving mother, Mom was a judgmental wife.  My father could never do anything right in her eyes, except make a good living and make her laugh with his corny jokes.  I was a lot like my mom, and a sassy, moody teenager to boot, and I mirrored her critical behavior towards my father.  Luckily, my sister was more tolerant and empathetic so my dad had one ally in the house. 

It irked me that my father didn’t defend himself against Mom’s and my incessant criticism.  As a teen, I longed for my father to be stronger, to discipline me, to defend his position in the household.  I clearly recall one evening when I exploded in front of him.  I was standing in the kitchen and he was in the den, leaning over the iron railing that separated the two rooms.  I spewed some disparaging comment at him that night, and my father’s reaction was typical:  He lowered his head as if I had hit him physically and was silent.  Something snapped that evening and I screamed at him, tears streaming down my face, “Why do you just stand there and take that from me?  I’m your daughter! Why don’t you yell at me?  I want you to fight back!” I needed him to rein me in and stop me from being such a mean person.

While Mom may not have respected my father much, she was loyal to him. It hurt my mother to witness my anger towards my father, and I remember her mantra, “But he loves you, Ellen” and my repeated response, “But love isn’t enough.”  With the wisdom of years, I now realize that while love was not enough for that youthful version of myself, love is enough now.

Over the years, I have come to see my dad as a simple, kind, and cheerful man.  He doesn’t expect a lot from life or relationships, and therefore, he is happy most of the time.  He’s a social guy, and enjoys making people laugh.   I know he loves me and I love him.  I still don’t admire and respect him, but I do love him.   

My relationship with my father changed when my mom became ill ten years ago and passed away three years later.  For years, after I moved out of the house, when I called my parents and my dad answered the phone, I would say “hello” and then quickly ask to speak to my mother.  But when it became difficult for Mom to come to the phone, I was forced to speak to my father to find out about her health.  When I came to their apartment, I saw my dad heating up dinner in the microwave and following my mom’s instructions to complete other household tasks like vacuuming and taking the garbage to the incinerator.  It must have been difficult for my father, a man who never did a load of laundry and relied on my mother to pick out his clothes every morning, to step up as it must have been tough for my mother to let go.    

During one visit, I recall watching them peck at each other with demeaning remarks and nasty comments.  It was a familiar scene, but on this particular day it made me angry and tested my patience.  At the end of the visit, my father went down to my car with me to get some food I had brought them.  In the elevator, I spurted, “Dad, you and Mom always fight.  How can you live like that all the time?  Why don’t you just get a divorce!”  My father’s face filled with rage and he yelled at me, “Ellen, your mother and I have been married fifty years.  You don’t just give up on someone like that! We stick by each other.”  I was relieved to see my father get angry with me, to take a strong stand that showed how much he cared about my mom.  And I felt ashamed for suggesting they separate.

As Mom’s health deteriorated, my father became her caretaker, helping her get dressed in the morning and undressed in the evening, guiding her in and out of chairs, holding her while she went to the bathroom.  The caretaking took a toll on Dad; he looked unkempt and exhausted every time I visited.  But he never complained. 

One day when my mom was in a hospital bed after one of her many surgeries—before the massive stroke that eventually killed her—she pleaded with me, “Please take care of your father when I’m gone.”  I responded with a nod, signaling my assent but not making too bold a commitment.  I felt that spending a lot of time with my father alone would be unbearable; but it turns out that my relationship with him has been quite pleasant.  

Today Dad is healthy and living in a senior community near my sister, who takes care of his day-to-day needs.  His life is uncomplicated, and that’s just how he likes it.  He watches TV most of the day in his Lazy Boy chair—sports  games, old movies, Judge Judy, news—and goes to the communal dining room for dinner at 4:30 sharp.  He’s made some friends there and he sits with the same group every night.  I use the term “friends” loosely, because Dad is not capable of engaging in meaningful relationships, or maybe he just chooses not to.  I take my dad out to lunch once a week and have him to my home for holidays and barbeques. 

Still, he shies away from serious conversation and is most happy when talking at a superficial level – telling jokes, asking questions, and repeating the news he heard that day. Dad’s world is very small and because there’s little variation, he doesn’t have to worry or think about much.  He gave up his car willingly when he moved to the senior community because he didn’t want or need independence.  My sister has taken over my mother’s role and puts his clothes out, does his food shopping and takes him to the doctor.  My whole life, I’ve seen my father get flustered and nervous when faced with making a decision or solving a problem.  Now, the only choice he needs to make is whether to have a Diet Coke or Iced Tea with his hamburger when I take him to lunch.  I jest with him that if I take him to a new restaurant, he’s not allowed to order his usual, a hamburger “with lots of onions.” But I secretly hope that he does order a burger, because I don’t have the patience to watch him study the menu for a half-hour.

Does my father’s passive behavior still anger me?  Am I still judgmental?  Yes.  It’s hard for me not to criticize when he doesn’t call long-time friends who try to keep in touch or acknowledge family members’ birthdays. I still squirm when he takes an eternity to make the simplest of decisions. When I watch my father eat with his fingers covered with ketchup, I must tell him he needs to use his napkin.  Or I’ll explode.  I’ll never understand why he doesn’t go out for a walk or use his cell phone or take an umbrella when it’s raining.  But I do understand that he’s very different from me, and I try to remind myself that his life choices are as worthy as mine.

I’ve learned to appreciate Dad’s good qualities in a way I was unable to as a teenager.  His positive outlook, for example.  He frequently tells me how fortunate he feels to be healthy. He feels secure to have children who care for him and take the time to visit.  And, he is content in his simple and sedentary life.  I’ve also come to appreciate my dad’s good humor, which I might point out, is different from appreciating his humor.  While I still think his jokes are stupid, rather than scowling like I used to, now I smile back at him because I know the intent is good; he simply wants people to like him.  And, he is a loving man.  He always greets me with a big smile, welcomes a tight hug, thanks me for taking him out, and tells me he loves me.  Years ago, I might not have been able to say it back.  Now I don’t hesitate to answer, “I love you too, Dad,” and picking the right Father’s Day card is easy.