I wrote a few years back that there comes a time, for all of us, when gravity is no longer our friend. Our fingers, arms, and legs don’t really work in concert the way they did when we were in our thirties and forties. Ok, maybe even our fifties and sixties. I know what the scientists will say – that we need gravity so that things don’t just drift about like in a space capsule. Ok, understood. Force of gravity however, isn’t the only lead indicator that we’re not quite as functional as we used to be. Our lifestyles too have dramatically changed – some elements for the better, some perhaps not. I don’t believe for a minute that 70 is the new 50, except for Joe Biden and Jane Fonda. Eyes, teeth, and joints aren’t buying it either. But all of those little things keep announcing to us, like a bullhorn, that time is marching on. So, you know you’re getting older when . . . . .
You see items that you received as wedding gifts appearing on the shelves of antique shops. A few years back, while searching for something in an antique store, I saw a crystal cream and sugar set identical to one we got as a wedding gift. I guess, technically, as it was over twenty-five years old, it’s an “antique”. But still . . . . . .
You pick out a new car based on how easily you can get in and out of it. Yes, those little, sporty numbers that caught our eye when we were young and vigorous, or were more a mid-life crisis buy, but will probably take the jaws-of-life to get us out. The hips groan, the back lets us know it’s not quite as pliable as it once was. The legs too have lost quite a bit of their elasticity. Once they stretch out, they tend to lock on place. And what is with those older folks still driving huge pick-up trucks, the ones with steps to get up, struggling to into them? The need a reality check. Even the DMV, to add insult to injury, informs you that they can no longer routinely renew your driver’s license. You’ve somehow become a menace on the road. It’s all too much.
Your list of medications is longer than your grocery list. Yes, I have a printed list now, so that during appointments, when the nurse pulls out her tablet and starts reading off my top ten or so, I hand her a printed copy because I can’t remember what I take. I know there are six in the morning and two at night, and their names are eight to nine syllables long. On the plus side, they’ve brought back the letters “q”, “v”, “y”,and “x”. We put the pills into little daily planners with compartments. And pill splitters for those pills that are too much at one time. Medicare will send you timely updates on which medications they’ll have to replace – the brand name medications you’ve been taking for decades, but which are now too expensive so they’re switching to generics. Probably from China and stuck on a dock in LA.
Your bladder has shrunk to the size of a walnut, and eight solid hours of sleep at night isn’t in the cards. You plan trips around availability of bathrooms. You know where they are at the grocery store, at the coffee shop, everywhere, or you’ve made allowances to get home quickly in an emergency.
You used to have a doctor. Now we have a “primary care” doctor. One among many, a virtual SWAT team of medical professionals. Nothing strikes fear in us like that depressing phrase, “You need to see a specialist.” Back when I was in my prime, nobody saw a specialist unless they were scheduled for open heart or brain surgery.
You’ve worn eyeglasses since high school. With cataract surgery, though, and lens implants, my vision is better than ever. Except that I need reading glasses – the ones you can buy for a couple of bucks at the drug store or a discount store. But I can’t remember to carry them with me. Simple solution – I have a pair everywhere I go – next to my chair in the living room, by the computer, on my night stand in the bedroom (in case I feel like reading before I get too sleepy), in the kitchen for reading recipes, and one in the car that I use when I go to the grocery store and can’t read my list. I even had a pair on the back porch for mornings with my coffee and newspaper. Yes, it’s a great system, although I’m usually mocked for it. (Editor’s note: I even bought a bunch of fuzzy, upright glasses holders from Publisher’s Clearing House, one of my favorite retailers, to keep them handy and undamaged.)
You pick at, and then scrub a spot of something you’ve spilled on the front of your shirt, or fleece. When it stubbornly refuses to come off, you realize it’s a brand logo embroidered on the front. In my defense, it’s really the manufacturer’s fault – the logo was stitched in an odd color, so by rights it should have been a blob of mustard. Another incident of failing eyesight.
Date Night has become Date Breakfast, possibly lunch. You avoid driving at night because, well, night vision isn’t what it used to be. Cataracts have been removed, which is an improvement, but still not completely safe to be out after dusk or before the sun is up. That nine hour drive we used to make routinely to DC is a thing of the past. An hour into Boston to pick up the daughter and her laundry coming home for the weekend is about as far as that elastic will stretch.
Your morning routine includes a block of time for testing – blood sugar, blood pressure, oxygen level, cholesterol, on and on. Remember the good old days when we rolled out of bed, got dressed and went off to work? Or the early days of retirement, putting on a pot of coffee and reading the paper? Now, the news is on television and on online. I’m about the only one in our neighborhood that gets a newspaper, and newspaper boys on bicycles, with a dog trotting at their side, are like bank tellers. A pleasant memory.
Halloween is a chore, not a joy. I spend $40 on candy, and that’s the little ones, and have to get out of my chair to answer the door. The costumes have mostly come from Walmart, so the originality factor is diminished. The one positive, and it’s a bit one to me, is that every child that came to my door, large or small, said “thank you”. Just when I think civility is lost, it pops up again.
The temperature is dipping below 60, so I’m turning on the heat in the morning. Her Ladyship has a strict rule about turning on heat before October, so do it while she’s still sleeping. I will get an inquisition at some point, but at least my fingers and toes aren’t frozen. Years ago, we’d go to Florida to visit my in-laws either for Christmas or February vacation. It was in the mid-60’s, so I’d go for a morning walk enjoying the warm weather. As I passed the shuffleboard courts, though, they’d all be wearing hats and mittens, and some would have parkas.
You are convinced that the world is “going to hell in a handbasket”, remembering with longing the warm glow of the 20th century. Forgetting two world wars, the Red Scare, the Cold War, fascism and communism, the wars in Korea and Vietnam. On and on. Maybe COVID wasn’t quite so bad.
I'm Thinking...No! 