The main perk of teaching is that I get to learn a lot from my students, who range in age from 18 to 96 years old. Last semester, one of my students on the younger end of that spectrum said something so profound, I’ve wound up repeating it to myself every day. “Everyone is doing the best that they can.”
When I was that student’s age, I’d had the opposite response to those around me. I’d always been quick to call out posers, slackers and fools.
As the humiliations of my disease pile on, I find myself doing many of the very things I’d formerly found inexplicable and utterly ridiculous. And that’s on a good day.
Take the treadmill. I’d never understood the point of it. As a writer, I’m fond of forward motion. You can’t do better than climbing a mountain to learn everything you need to know about a narrative arc. You can’t have a hero’s journey without setting off toward the unknown, somewhere beyond the horizon, preferably on foot, or at the oar. What self-respecting writer could prefer the tedium of walking or running indoors to the nonstop novelty of walking or running in the wild? Only a coward, or a terminal bore.
When my doctor discovered my bones are two standard deviations more breakable than the bones of a typical woman my age, she recommended I quit swimming — which she’d formerly lauded as the best form exercise — and instead try out the treadmill. She explained that I would have to submit to gravity if I were to ever have a chance at rebuilding my bones.
This is how low I have sunk: so far, the switch to the treadmill has been an adventure. My first day on it, I was grinning like a ninny at the novelty of elevating my heart rate. (Thanks to MS, I am confined to doing exercises at a rate that doesn’t raise my body heat: once the heat is on, the wiring in my brain blows out.) I only made it through five minutes. (And those last 35 seconds took some discipline.) I then tottered 15 feet to the ring of machines I’m familiar with—my toys!—and returned to my weight routine—low settings only, because strain could pop my retina. (Is this silly, or what?) I have since worked my way up to six minutes per treadmill session. And then I had my breast biopsy. I’d been planning to drive to the gym afterwards. Instead I was told to stay out of the pool (again?) and not lift anything over five pounds for that day. Theoretically, I could have driven to the gym for maybe six and a half minutes of treadmill, and the leg machines. Ha ha. Instead, I opted to heal.
So yes, today, Gentle Reader, if you see a woman on the treadmill, she isn’t me. I ask you to see her as my student would see her. I ask you to assume that the woman on the treadmill is doing the best that she can.