Encountered a bit of bother this week. I’d been waiting anxiously until the weather broke so that I could start to tend the outdoor garden beds. I may have worked a bit too long – as all gardeners know, much of what we do is bending over to clear away the dead stuff, and thus, my back is sore. It’s been a festival of ibuprofen around here, and my whole gardening operation has come been shut down. The weather has turned colder again to accommodate my incapacitation. But Her Ladyship has been resistant to the idea of hiring an assistant or two to manage the estate. I know – penny pinching in the worst sense.
I don’t know what happened. I used to be able to work outside for hours at a time. I’d clear the beds, put in some annuals for color, edge the beds, trim the rosebushes, fertilize and mulch, and then happily survey my accomplishments. But, for some curious reason, my 71-year-old back is resisting this year. After an hour or so, it’s yelling at me, “for God’s sake, old man . . . . .” I have to spread it out over several days, to pace myself. I’m spending more time reading, or interfacing with Her Ladyship. Or worse, thinking up new topics for my blog. You, my faithful readers, will be the unwilling recipients, because my gardening is temporarily on pause. I’ll have to learn to take it slowly. A little bit here and there. It’s sad, really, because my plant hopes and dreams far outdistance my physical stamina and what’s left of the Princess’ inheritance.
At a doctor’s appointment this morning, the nurse that ushered me into the pleasant room in Cellblock G asked me what medications I’m taking. My first inclination was to ask her to read a complete list of known medications and I’d tell her which ones to cross off the list. But, she didn’t look like she would be receptive to my wry humor, so I pulled out a printed list from my wallet. Too many to remember off the top of my head, and I can’t pronounce them anyway. I don’t know why they can’t just give medicines simple, straightforward names. “Pioglitazone” – let’s just call that one “piggy”. Or Piggy-30 if we want to include the dose. I think I may have revolutionized the whole field of pharmaceuticals here in a single stroke.
I used to bounce out of bed in the morning. Ok, perhaps bounce is rather overstated, but I could climb out quite comfortably. Now, it’s a longer, more painful process. I have to make sure that my feet and legs are still attached and functioning. I’m working against the force of gravity, which thwarts me at every turn. “Able to be upright and take nourishment” was something a dear friend and teaching colleague used to say facetiously each day as I’d greet him. Now, sadly, that’s a challenge. A check on reality. We know we’re getting older when all the tv commercials, at least for us, in our demographic like the evening news or Jeopardy, are medications for joint pain and arthritis, hair restoration, wrinkly and spotted skin, and planning “spa days” with the grandkids because we have a walk-in bathtub. Or “A Place for Mom” commercials and in-home care. Speaking of television, raise your hand if you remember when television was free. You would have rabbit ears on the unit, or a big antenna in the attic. Three networks vying for our attention. Commercials lasted no more than a minute. Summer reruns were just that, and the new season started only in September. “Streaming” was something the snowbanks did when the weather warmed. Basic service now doesn’t include much that isn’t a cheesy, low-budget movie or paid programming. But again, I digress.
And we’re back to aches and pains. Back just a few years ago, I’d watch my late father-in-law gather with his two sisters. They’d have brisk conversations about their doctor’s appointments, moving on to the various medications they were taking, checking their pulses, and eventually, out would come the pill bottles and they’d compare them. I’d view these conversations with a certain detached amusement, until it hits me that now, I’m there. My wife organizes her “pharmacy” into daily doses of pills – green for morning, and purple for night with slots for each day. I didn’t take that many, so I didn’t bother until, WHAM, now I’ve got six in the morning and two at night. When did that happen? Long about the time the blood sugar began its rise. And what’s worse, two of the morning pills I have to cut in half. Now that my physical dexterity and eyesight are bidding me a fond farewell, I have to cut some of them in half. Thank you once again, aging process.
One of the true bright spots of growing older is that my naps are becoming more routine, diverse, and accepted in the household. As I wrote once before, I come from a long and proud tradition of napping. My brother is really a medalist in the field. He can take several in a day. I’m not to that point yet, although my afternoon nap is a sacred ritual. Some time ago, in a burst of inspiration, I suggested the formation of the Universal Society By and For Nappers – USBFN. Our banner will include a background of “z’s” and closed curtains with the legend, “Call me in an hour.” All phone service should rightly shut down during prime nap time, which is anywhere from 2:00 – 4:30 PM. In particular, all call centers, be they located in the Asian subcontinent or not, must unplug during that time, and yes, they’ll just have to figure out what time it is there. Our dear friend, Lady Peacock, too will have to make that adjustment. She invariably calls about 20 minutes to a half hour into my nap.
I may have mentioned that, since I had cataracts removed a couple of years ago, I don’t need glasses except for reading. For that, I use some designer ones from the fashion boutique at Amazon. I keep several pairs scattered about the house at strategic locations where I need them. Now, I’m getting to the point where I need to do the same thing with those grabbers that old people use to pick things up. I kept some near the back door for getting my newspaper in the morning. But, sadly, just ordered a couple more. We all know that, just as our back becomes less and less resilient, our hands simultaneously begin to lose their dexterity and we drop everything. Why is it that physical decline and the evil forces of gravity are in cahoots to frustrate us?
I rather like to think that, like fine wine and antiques, we’re getting more valuable with age. We’re able to contribute more not only to our immediate surroundings, but to society at large. Certainly, as we mature, it should be readily apparent that our brilliance – the sheer power of our brains – gains so much more clarity and insight. A wealth of knowledge and experience. Until “senior moments” – occasional moments of memory lapse, along with aches and pains, become full-blown dementia and incapacitation, and we’re back to Square One. Not the way we thought it would go. I was to be one of an entire generation that we’d call, “The Invincible”. Oh, well. I’m thinking, . . . . . . . guess not.”
I'm Thinking...No! 