My chair

A few years ago, when I broke my left shoulder, I quickly determined that I would be very challenged trying to find a comfortable sleeping spot in bed.  Every movement, especially those involving a change in position, was met with agony, not from nightmares but from real-life unrelenting pain and misery. I would have clearly preferred an old-fashioned nightmare, but you have to sleep in order to provoke a really scary dream. And I, woe is moi, couldn’t sleep a wink.

Anyone who has ever broken a limb knows that this is not an exaggeration, and that the best advice is to be careful and avoid the injury.  That’s not always easy.

One such night I was ready for something new. That was my own brand-new recliner chair, a magical invention intervention that I figured out for myself, without even seeking the advice of the good Dr. Google.

On that quickly bought chair,  I could actually sit comfortably without the misery. And I could sleep. Today, years later, I don’t even remember what clumsy movement of mine broke that shoulder but it seems fine, healed without surgery, and I am still in love with that chair.

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It crowds the room, which is pretty small and already home to a large sofa and a loveseat (yes, I know, that remains a strange name for a piece of furniture, as are many other similar appellations). There was literally no room for my happy relationship with my recliner but, nonetheless, we found a place by a process called squishing, definitely not decorating.

That chair remains my own territory. Sometimes I hold myself back if a guest enters the room and heads for my chair. It wouldn’t be hospitable to ask him to please move. As a little kid I had a chair for meals, and I used to tell anyone that seat is deserved, not reserved. But most of the time, armed with a book or newspaper (like you, I am now more compulsive about reading the paper throughout the day, online as well as the hard copy) to bring me up to speed on the terrible times we live in. At least there is some solace in my chair, but only some. I’m comfortable when I read the miserable news from Israel and here in America.

And then, it was unanticipated, as it surely always is, but I had another really severe injury that would have once again made the chair mandatory rather than only a loving luxury. It happened years later (lest you discover the truth that I am a genuine klutz and can fall on a moment’s notice).

I know I’ve already told you about this mishap, which was a clear example of the best of times and the worst of times. We had literally just joyfully arrived in Israel on that very wintry evening, and we were at the final stop. We had eagerly left our taxi and had about 200 feet of walkway until we reached the sanctity of the Jerusalem apartment building where we would catch up on some sleep, breathing in the holy air. Each of us had a single piece of hand luggage — definitely not onerous or heavy — and we also had the unbidden, but delightfully charming, help of our grandson Josh carrying petty pieces of paraphernalia. We were all set, thinking we knew what lay ahead.

In truth none of us ever really knows what comes next.

Did I mention that it was really teeming? Did I further mention that the wind was sort of a compromise between a stage five hurricane and a tornado?

The warm, inviting lobby beckoned, and we picked up the pace a tad to account for the drenching welcome we were receiving. Suddenly, that was it for me! I was blown over, not in a good way, as when you are happily surprised. No, not at all. I was flung to the ground pretty violently, and I couldn’t get up. My glasses landed somewhere in a galaxy far away (but were eventually, several blind days later, retrieved). The two gentle-men, Josh and the faithful husband, brought me to my feet, as their own stability was likewise being challenged. But what choice did they have, honestly? Were they going to leave me lying there until morning?

I hobbled to the elevator in intense discomfort, assuming a simple black and blue mark would soon surface and a good night’s sleep would put me back in the euphoria of having just arrived in that magnificent place, a place where Zionists like me feel right at home even when dealing with a big achy spot in my back, and without benefit of my wonderful recliner, which sat cold and barren in New Jersey.

It turned out that the black and blue mark was huge, as was the agony.  A doctor was needed.  To sum up his diagnosis, this was not a case of hypochondria.  This was a fractured pelvis, which necessitated lots of time being wheeled around the holy city during the days and lots of time trying to figure out how to sleep at night.  Rough tough going!

It wasn’t until weeks later, when we arrived back in West Orange, and to my blessed chair, that I finally got a comfortable night’s sleep. It had been, at least seemingly, waiting for me all that time, and I greeted it with the affection that pain removal warrants. I was not seen embracing or kissing my chair, but believe me, I was so tempted.

That room is still too crowded.  Maybe I’ll get rid of the loveseat, but definitely not the recliner.

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of nine. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com