I have a trick ankle. When it gives way, I can go from standing upright to lying flat on my back in a heartbeat.
This usually happens at the most inopportune moments.
As a college student, I fell down the stairs in broad daylight at a UCLA fraternity house, my skirt hiked over my head. The guy I was crushing on helped me to my feet and became my college sweetheart.
As a young professional, my trick ankle gave out and I collapsed in front of my boyfriend, Drew, in the parking lot of a TV studio in Hollywood. I got back up unscathed and proceeded to surprise him with an on-air Valentine’s Day marriage proposal on “KTLA 5 Morning News.” When we got back in the car, Drew was officially my fiancé.
Recently, my ankle gave way while hiking in the Santa Monica Mountains. I slid down that trail with my leg dragging behind me and injured my right knee. This time, I needed surgery.
Although I had already consulted with three orthopedic surgeons, Drew, who married me despite my nosedive in the parking lot, wanted me to see Dr. Bert Mandelbaum at Cedars-Sinai.
“He only does young, virile Olympic athletes and FIFA soccer players,” I protested. As a woman in her 50s living in youth-obsessed Los Angeles, I was well aware of my age.
Drew persisted. A week later, I limped into Mandelbaum’s exam room.
“Diana, this MRI shows your medial meniscus is torn and that your ACL is severed,” Mandelbaum said.
“It’s my trick ankle,” I moaned, adding that I’d had this surgery before, after a snow skiing accident in my late 20s.
“What do you do now for exercise?”
“I swim, hike, do yoga and paddle board.”
“Well, none of those require an ACL,” Mandelbaum pointed out. “I recommend a debridement of your meniscus only. It’s a less invasive surgery and a much easier recovery.”
I was surprised by his meniscus-only recommendation, especially because the other three surgeons had breezily recommended the full reconstruction.
As I drove back to my newly remediated home in the fire-ravaged Palisades, I considered how differently these two knee surgeries were. In my late 20s, I’d wanted a full reconstruction, hard stop. I’d been a gymnast and cheerleader in my youth, and I still wanted to be able to do cartwheels. (That surgeon had looked at me quizzically, “Cartwheels? Really? I haven’t heard that one before.”)
As soft sunlight slanted in through my car window, I realized I’d already passed the performance baton onto my teenage daughter Dayna. My enjoyment now came from sitting back and watching her shine. Her cartwheels, in the form of her singing and acting in Pali High musical productions, were now my cartwheels. As age acceptance pulsed through me, I made my decision: I would go with the meniscus-only option.
Two weeks post-op, I started physical therapy, and as the weeks passed, I felt more and more like myself. A will of steel rose within me to get into the best possible shape. My next birthday was fast approaching, and I was headed toward the legal speed limit in California: 55.
“You’re looking good, Di,” Drew said, coming up from behind me, and encircling my waist with his hands.
“Let’s have a party for my birthday,” I said.
I told him I was planning to be more like my spirited grandmother, who had never apologized for her age and lived to be 94. I vividly remember, when I was about 8, and seated next to her at the family dinner table, how I’d run my index finger along her forearm. Curious, I’d asked, “Grandma, why do you have all these brown spots?”
She’d turned to face me head-on, eyes widened in feigned shock, her right hand over her heart. “Today me, tomorrow you,” she’d said, wagging her crooked, arthritic finger in my face.
Her prophetic words had scared me. With the arrogance of youth, I’d never considered that growing older could be anything but positive.
To further aid me in my age acceptance campaign, I started to affectionately refer to my birthday as my “Double Nickels.” With my husband onboard, we chose a venue: the Penthouse, a swanky restaurant atop Santa Monica’s Huntley Hotel. On the appointed evening, Drew and I watched the sun set over the Pacific with an intimate coterie of dear friends, imbibing cocktails, mocktails and my favorite Schramsberg sparkling wine. (When I die, I want to be buried at their vineyard in Napa Valley.)
When we sat for dinner, speeches — or rather, roasts — broke out around the table, with our shared peals of laughter making the air ring with life and its sweetness. Tipsy, I stood up to address the table, having no idea what I was going to say. I started with thank you, and then, upon hearing Gloria Estefan in the background singing about the rhythm and the beat, I called to my friends to join me in a conga line around our table. (Note: I kicked off my heels before dancing, because, again, the trick ankle.)
Waving my white dinner napkin aloft, I thought of my grandmother: loud and proud. It was a smashing evening, and I fell asleep that night deeply grateful for my 55 years.
Lying in bed the next morning, Drew and I reviewed the highlights of the previous evening. Soon we were howling, bordering on hysterical. So much so, that I could no longer look directly into my husband’s face. It was when I was looking away, in that barely-breathable moment, that I had another idea.
“Let’s go away together.”
As our marital negotiation ensued, I agreed to toss my one-piece for a new bikini if he made the travel arrangements to the tropical destination of his choice.
About six weeks later, I laid my red bikini-clad body atop the white, powdered sugar sand of Cancún, Mexico. I was certainly not cutting the svelte figure I had in my 20s. But I was alive, healthy and with my favorite person in the world. The fact that Drew still gazed upon my more than half-a-century-old, decidedly not-hot physique with love and desire was a marvel and a gift.
Trick ankle aside, it’s love that we need to age gracefully.
The author is a writer and literary/entertainment publicist. She is at work on a memoir. She’s on Instagram: @dianadanielepr.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
