“Did I hear the word ‘neuropathy’?”

—“Sure, it’s pleasant holding hands with a pretty lady.”
I’d say that to my aquacise-instructor, cute for her age. No thunder-thighs, and also an easy smiler.
I probably won’t.
“But,” I’d say; “it’s also cheating. I should be able to walk steady without hanging onto someone or something.”
I did a few days ago with another lady, a classmate.
“Can I hang onto you for a second so I can do this exercise without falling?”
We held hands, face-to-face.
“No hands,” our aquacise-instructor said. After which I immediately began stumbling and staggering.
I think our instructors at that swimming-pool are beginning to realize more is making me unstable than negative attitude.
My dry-land hospital physical-therapy noticed almost immediately.
“Neuropathy,” I told them. “My neurologist diagnosed me with neuropathy.”
That’s poor nerve communication to-and-from my feet.
“I can’t cure neuropathy,” my hospital therapist said. “All I can do is give you tools to counter it.”
I have a hunch those pool therapists never dealt with neuropathy so severe. If they did their clients gave up after three or four sessions.
I, on the other hand, kept at it perhaps three years. During that time many have come-and-gone. A couple of us are constant. It beats doing nothing, and for me just sloshing around in that pool is a workout.
My counselor says the socialization is beneficial. It counters my sordid childhood.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO/SMILE AT/BE INTERESTED IN YOU!” Yet some at that pool do, including that aquacise-instructor.
So much for my childhood, and 70 years late.
We were trying to do four steps of varying height on the pool bottom. First was eight inches, followed by six inches, then four inches, then six inches final.
I fell off the first step. My aquacise-instructor extended her hand. “Pretend I’m Killian,” she said. (Killian is my crazy Irish-Setter who I still walk.)
“Easy-as-pie with something to hang onto,” I exclaimed. I began walking across the steps.
“Feel each step with your feet,” she said.
“I wish I could,” I said.
She let go. “Pretend you’re still walking Killian.”
I immediately began stumbling and staggering.
“There are those among us who have neuropathy,” she said as I staggered along.
“Did I hear the word ‘neuropathy’?” I asked her later.
Hooray-hooray, perhaps they’re realizing it’s not just my dreadful childhood that makes me unstable. Give me something to hang onto, and I’m fairly stable.
I call it triangulation. Grab this; grab that — to offset my neuropathy.
Even without triangulation I’m fairly stable. Unless I try to stand on one foot, or attempt stairs no hands.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• I’m always a sucker for easy smilers.
• I see a bereavement-counselor once a month because of my wife dying.
• “No pretty lady, etc. etc.” was my neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent Hilda Q. Walton, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. My hyper-religious parents heartily agreed. (And I’m sure by now it’s well over 14 blogs.)