Identity

My daughter Susan is now Mrs. Zachary Fox and is living happily in the Chicago suburbs across the border in Indiana. She is an accomplished typist and when she lived at home she teased me unmercifully about my typing skills. If she could only see me in the predawn darkness under the kitchen light this morning. I am typing with my left hand (I am right handed) with a sling on the other arm!
As I get a bit older, I never know what new ache or pain may pop up. I have been happily attending to my bride of forty years the past week or so because of some of her post-surgery limitations. (She is doing well now.) I guess when I slipped out to exercise the other day, I did something “wrong” in pretending to be a weight lifter with eleven pound weights! Turned out that it resulted in spending yesterday in the emergency room with a right arm I couldn’t lift. All went well and I am waiting for a diagnosis which they suspect may be nothing serious. It would probably be laughable to others beyond Susan to watch me (us). Getting the recliner to work last night was a joke! I can’t even get the top off the pill bottle till Natalie gets up!
As I paused, I looked down at a white hospital identity bracelet that is still securely fastened to my arm. I forgot to take it off. As I stare at it absentmindedly, I read all the readable vital information that it contains (the rest is a UPC barcode). How silly. I know who I am, what my Social Security number is, and what I am allergic to. I don’t need this.
But then the thought occurred, “Don’t you?” I realized that I, like so many others, have been given a new identity that I often “forget.” I know that there is no way that Susan forgets that she is now Susan Fox. However, I can easily lapse and forget just who I am supposed to be. I also forget what I am forever figuratively allergic to and “push the envelope.” Perhaps I need a bracelet more permanent than the one I have on to be a constant reminder; not for others, but just for myself. I am who “the bracelet” says I am.