Growing Old

By Joe Rector

Amy and I drove behind an elderly couple the other day, and I thought I’d lose my mind at how slow they traveled down a busy highway. On another occasion, we watched as an older male chewed out a waitress over her service. Other than that one tirade, the man uttered not a single word to his wife, nor did she speak to him. My dear wife waited until we were in the car and then commented, “When we get old, neither of us is going to do those kinds of things.”  I laughed, looked at her, and replied, “We already are old!” It shocked her to hear that pronouncement, but the truth is the truth.

Our advanced age is reflected in many ways. The first one that comes to mind is maneuvering. I once used to be able to twist myself into positions to reach a certain screw or to retrieve a dropped item. These days, simply getting down to the floor is a task unless I fall in the process. The days of contorting myself to get into tight spaces are over, and, worst of all, rising from the floor is a taxing event. I must be close to a stable object on which I can push with one arm to help raise my body. If one isn’t available, I have to get on hands and knees and then straighten my legs as my hands remain still for stability. Yes, the sight is humorous.

The next indications of my age are those that appear on my body. With the slightest bump against any object, a huge purple-and-red area appears. Evidently, I’m clumsier than most because my arms and hands are covered with these marks. In addition, my skin has become paper-thin. The poke from a branch or the swipe of a dog’s claw easily penetrates the skin and leaves a small flood of blood running down my arms or legs. Blood thinner makes the situation worse, and I spend half my time trying to stop the gush of red so that I can finish a project.

It’s been several years since I’ve been able to stand up straight and immediately walk. Instead, I stand up bent at a 45-degree angle and wait a minute before my arthritic back allows me to proceed. My knees have begun hurting in the last year, and my fingers are crooked with arthritis. Of course, the most bent finger is the one I nearly cut off with a table saw last summer.

Cramps hit at night and drive me from the bed. Those that hit the inside of my thighs are the worst. I can’t stand straight, and every step I take to loosen up my muscles brings on a spear-piercing jolt of pain. Restless legs also make me give up sleep. My usual bedtime these days is about 1:00 a.m.

I’ve developed a new condition that I call the “baby doll syndrome.” The name comes from those dolls whose eyes would close every time they were tilted. I sit on my side of our reclining couch, lean back, and before long, fall dead-to-the-world asleep.

Finally, I have reached that age when a person walks into a room and cannot remember why in the hell one is there. I can recall with vividness things from my childhood but can’t remember the name of a new person I met five minutes ago. Sometimes, a word just won’t come, and I stand mystified and try to remember it.

The joys of life are many, but some hardships accompany growing older. I’ve listed them, but I hope no one takes them as whining or complaining. Everything listed in this piece is a statement of fact. I’m glad to be alive and to have the experiences that come with my years. A line in Alan Jackson’s new song says, “If they found the Fountain of Youth, I wouldn’t drink a drop, and that’s the truth.” The rewards that come with aging are blessings for each person. I thank God for giving me these years, and I apologize to family and friends for being such a pain.