Will I Get the Exercise I Need?

Before I moved to the retirement community, I was alone in a big house, responsible for the meals I ate, the dirty dishes, my laundry, the kitchen floor, shopping, fetching the mail, taking out the trash and knocking the unexpected snow off the awning over my deck. And my doctor kept asking what I did for exercise.

The truth is that housekeeping is a great workout. In the course of a day, I might stoop, squat, pull, push, lift, carry, reach, climb the stairs and descend the stairs, taking a few thousand steps in a day. Of course, as I aged, I got slower, took more breaks, neglected some chores that were hard to do.

And then I arrived at my new home where I have a one-bedroom apartment with some cleaning provided. My sheets are changed and laundered for me, as often as I want. I get three meals a day in the dining room. For a fee I can have these delivered to my room.

For a while I enjoyed the opportunity to put up my feet. Before long, however, I remembered promises I had made to myself, among them that I would be responsible for my own health. What I meant was that if I had my right mind no one else should have to tell me to take my medicine or eat my vegetables. If I had minimal strength, no one should have to coax me to take a walk. I wrote this down. I put it in my book.

It was winter when I came, but my door opens onto a spacious hall, long and wide, with wings at both ends. I could walk miles in a day. On carpet! And I did. Well, about a mile and half each day. And when spring came the long paved walks around the building beckoned, and the patio with lovely plants and outdoor furniture invited. I could walk around the rectangle, sit awhile and walk again.

Late every day we residents get a list of the next day’s scheduled activities. Among these there is something called “Stretching and Strengthening.” It turned out to be exercise done in a chair, which sounded to me like something for wimps. A woman I ate lunch with occasionally urged me to go. She is 97, so I was not expecting much.  In fact, it was hard work. We moved everything that was movable. We moved in rhythm continuously for half an hour, our leader counting, instructing, encouraging. My heart rate went up. My muscles burned. I found out that a couple of my joints are considerably disabled. I was so tired on Tuesday that I did not go back on Thursday.

The second time I realized that my biggest problem was not moving my limbs but supporting myself for half an hour, while sitting up straight on the front edge of my chair. It was my back that wanted to rest. I confessed this to the young woman therapist who leads us so ably, and she came to my room to talk about it. She watched me doing things and in ten minutes knew things I didn’t know about myself. Then she worked out a program of simple exercises, little things I would never have thought to do, and in two weeks I was noticeably better. In four I could do things impossible in recent years. My frozen shoulder consented to let me lift my arm straight over my head.  My back held me erect for half an hour of work with the group. In six weeks I reached all of her goals for me, and now we are just working toward endurance.

The therapist is happy. She likes a client who asked for help instead of being sent.

I am happy, because I am keeping a promise I made to myself. And I like being stronger. Stronger is safer.

In case anybody is wondering about life in such a place, my story illustrates the truth. In the retirement community, as at home in our houses, we have to be responsible for our health to the extent that we have to want it and make the effort. The opportunity is here, but each person is free to accept the help or not.

It is our body, our need, our choice.