My son held up a leather bag, asking what it was.
It had my bowling ball in it. “The ball was made especially for me,” I said. “It is a 13 pound ball, and it was made to fit my fingers. It’s just right.”
This explanation did not satisfy my kid. “It’s too heavy for you,” he replied. “When’s the last time you went bowling?”
I couldn’t answer his question. I didn’t know.
My daughter-in-law chipped in. “When do you plan to go bowling again, Cindy?”
I couldn’t answer her question. I didn’t know. But it did sound like a good idea, and loads of fun.
Going back to my son’s previous comment, I defended my bowling ball and me, “The ball is not too heavy. It’s just right for me. You can’t find 13 pound balls most places.”
My son returned the attack. “You need to build up to throwing a ball that heavy. You should be using a lighter ball, Mom. Bowling alleys have lots of 12 pounders, as well as 10 pounders. Those would be better for you.”
The kids were relentless, and placed my bowling bag, shoes, and ball in the bag to go to Goodwill.
Were my kids right? Was I becoming too old and fragile to throw my own bowling ball anymore? Egads! Were my bones aging? Am I really getting that old?
Conversation about aging appears everywhere. Three women sitting next to me in Starbucks as I type this are discussing plans about the future. One suggested the other one write a best seller and buy a big house for everyone. The second woman replied she needed to move and write in Florida because she cannot do winter here in Ohio anymore. “I’m afraid of slipping and falling,” she explained. Yep … falls and aging.
My 90-year old mother fell (for the umpteenth time) last summer, breaking her ankle while I was on vacation with my sister. My mother has spent the last year in assisted living for her own safety and well-being. She’s also had major surgery and lots of physical, occupational, and speech therapy. She now walks with a walker, although for a couple of periods of time, she had to be wheeled everywhere in a wheelchair. Currently, she’s eating a minced diet and drinking nectar-thickened liquids, as well as constantly chewing invisible gum. Research says swallowing issues are related to aging and dementia. I don’t want to fall. I don’t want swallowing issues.
Assisted living, on the other hand, has appeal. I’ve been telling one of my brothers that we need to consider that as an option. We could each have a large apartment, our own parking space, and even a pet if we wanted. We wouldn’t have to do grocery shopping, would have a staff to cook our own meals, wouldn’t have to pay electric, water, trash, or sewer bills, and wouldn’t have house insurance, or upkeep on a house. We wouldn’t have to do yard work or pay for it either. There are planned activities and entertainment as well as two free alcoholic drinks on Fridays. In addition, there’s a button to push if you need help, and nursing staff available for emergencies. Someone else cleans your apartment and empties your trash. There are folks around if you are lonely, and if you want to be alone, you can. What’s not to like? We could paint wheelchairs orange like the Dukes of Hazard car and race each other down the hallways.
My 91-year old mom has been drawing eyebrows on in two different places. (At least, she cares about her appearance.) One evening I asked my son and daughter-in-law if I drew my eyebrows on in two different places, one up high and one down low when I was 90, if they would tell me. They laughed, and responded, “No,” in unison. At this rate, who knows what I might look like or do at that age. Scary.
For several years now, my knees have been non-cooperative, arthritis aliens. It takes me a few extra seconds to get up, and get my sea legs back if I have been sitting for any extended length of time. My ortho doc told me several years ago when I couldn’t take the pain anymore, I’d be back. Since then I have been taking an osteo-bioflex pill which he says won’t make my knees better, but might help keep them from getting worse. I don’t want knee replacement. I have too much to do to be out of commission and in pain for any length of time. Why do body parts have to wear out?
Last summer I took myself to one of the local cemeteries to check on prices for a plot after several friends had family members pass away. I purchased a “space” and whatever goes with it, and am making payments on it. I figured this way I would be on top of the game and my kids wouldn’t have to worry about this detail. My daughter accepted it matter-of-factly, but I think it freaked my son out a wee bit. I really don’t want to croak right now.
In my job, I see so many elderly folks with physical problems, and so many lonely ones with no family or friends. My heart breaks for them. Aging is not for the weak.
Three years ago my iron dropped down to a low 22. The doctor said I was severely anemic, but tests did not show a bleed anywhere. When my son found out, he asked, “What have you been eating?”
I remember standing in the kitchen and answering, “Peanut butter, cheese sandwiches, and waffles.”
His face froze momentarily, and in a shocked voice he said, “Waffles, Mom? Really?”
“If it doesn’t go in the toaster or microwave, I can’t do it, Matt. I’m too tired. I barely have the energy to eat, let alone fix something to eat.”
Since that time, he asks repeatedly what I ate for dinner, and also if I have eaten any broccoli. I think he’s simply worried about me and is trying to encourage me to eat right so I stay healthy. One night after work when he called, he asked what I had eaten. I proudly said, “Carrots and celery sticks,” thinking that would calm him, but he responded, “Those are cruciferous vegetables, Mom, and full of water. You need to eat broccoli, asparagus, brussel sprouts, and cauliflower.” On another occasion when I ate out with a friend, I took a picture of the broccoli I ordered with my steak, and sent it to him with the caption, “See, I’m eating my broccoli.” I thought that might put his mind at rest. Silly me.
I have always looked far younger than my age. I have been cast opposite someone who was 20 years younger in a community theatre production. I remember asking my teen-aged daughter if it didn’t look weird. She said, “Mom, you look a lot younger, and Mike looks older, so you two look good together as a husband and wife.” My son has even used me at the state fair for the carnies to guess my age, knowing they would probably be wrong and he would win a prize. In the past year, however, I notice I have wrinkles and lines I never had before. Maybe I should use some kind of cream to help me look better instead of just my morning moisturizer. Aging is not my favorite wrinkle in time.
I bought a new couch that’s easier to get up from … for my older guests. I also recently did a bathroom renovation. I try to be cognizant of all I need to do for my own safety. I had the old, slippery tub taken out (besides the new drywall put in), and I had a walk-in shower with grips installed in its place. While the guys were still working on the bathroom, I stubbed my toe on the metal grid along the bottom of the shower the first time I got in. I may be aging, but I still retain my klutziness. I guess age can’t change who I am.
In a month or so, I will be flying out to see my daughter in another state. I’m not as capable as I used to be. I’m not able to walk far distances with ease in the airport anymore. Dang!! Is that called getting older, too? Soon, I’ll be at Dinosaur Status. Ack! As a dinosaur, I plan to do whatever I like. As a raptor, I will be constantly flying up and around in spastic, wild abandon, doing my own unique but ancient activities. Despite my birth day belying the fact, I’m not old yet … just older … more mature … and wiser. Rooooaaaaarrrrr!
