Birthday thoughts

 

The annual birthday picture with Jordan
Lovely birthday dinner tonight--Christians good hamburgers,
Jordan's blue cheese salad, and brownies

Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about aging, long before my birthday, but today seems like an appropriate time to write about it. It’s no secret: today I turned eighty-four. I won’t say I never expected to live this long, because that would not be the truth. I will say that I am a bit surprised to be here, and no, I don’t feel my age.

When my mom was this age, she began a long, slow decline into dementia, painful for both of us. Maybe because the lovely, happy, laughing woman, always a prioer lady, was replaced by someone I barely knew, I began all those years ago to think about aging, and one very unscientific conclusion I arrived at is that some of us keep our physical health and lose our minds; others keep our minds but the physical body goes to pieces. Mom was generally in good health.

I on the other hand have 500 chronic physical problems—okay, that’s an exaggeration, but if you’d see the pills I take twice a day you might think it comes close to truth. And, as I said to Jordan the other day, it’s always something, often a little something, but an annoyance. The latest if that wearing sleeping shirts and sitting on the leather seats of my walker and desk chair, I took a layer of skin off the back of both thighs. Annoying and painful, plus needing a trip to the doctor, antibiotics, and messy wound dressing.

My mind, on the other hand, seems almost as sharp as ever (my kids might disagree). I’m still writing, still figuring out how to put concepts into words, and loving it. Sure I sometimes open a window on the computer and stare at it, puzzled about what I was going to do, and like all of us I sometimes wander into the kitchen and wonder why I’m there. And I forget names. Jean, who watched her husband disappear into the never-land of Alzheimer’s, tells me if you forget a name but get it back the next day and keep it, that’s okay. If you never get it back, that’s a problem. For some odd reason, the name I can never remember is a celebrity who has no direct effect on my life—historian Doris Kearns Goodwin. There! I did it! I called I up from memory.

I talked to my brother about this the other day. He’s ninety, with a lot of physical problems and not much stamina, but his mind is sharp. He agreed with my unscientific theory (not always the case), and I’m sure he too was thinking of Mom.

Pandemic did a number on me, and I have never gotten over quarantine. I am content in my cottage—going out is fun but a lot of trouble. And like my brother, I have no stamina. I couldn’t walk a city block if I had to. I’m a bit stunned to realize that I can’t do everything by myself and need someone to help me. Specifically, I can’t climb on a stool to get to high shelves nor bend down to the low (I’m afraid I’ll fall out of my walker). But when Jordan refers to herself as my caretaker, I wince a bit. Me? Needing a caretaker? I could survive on my own. I can certainly care for myself and feed myself, but there are many things I can’t do.

I’m the one who voluntarily gave up driving (long story, mostly involving the walker), but it’s sometimes a shock to realize I can’t jump in the car to run an errand but must ask someone to do that for me. And that’s a rub. My caretakers are busy, I am hesitant to ask for fear I’ll push them too far, but then I’m frustrated because the dog really n
eeds to go to the vet or I really need that package mailed. We have our moments of tension in this household, but then, who doesn’t. It’s a delicate balance. I have an occasional pity party—lonely, frustrated by anything from my work to isolation, discouraged—but then again, who doesn’t?

I’m fortunate in so many ways: I have a comfortable, manageable home in the cottage with my dog. I have work that gets me out of bed, albeit a little later all the time, I have friends who come to see me, and I have fun cooking some darn good meals. Eighty-four doesn’t feel bad at all, but then I realize I am so much luckier than many my age.

There’s a huge difference between aging and mortality, and the latter is a subject I’m not yet willing to tackle. Tune in next week—maybe. I will l say that it’s with curiosity as much as fear that I hear time’s winged chariot.

Happy Birthday from
Jordan and Sophie

A lesson in dependency

Me with the walker that tried to dump me.
My friend there is Pierre, a visitor.

Last night I was sitting in my seated walker doing I don’t know what at the butcher block in the kitchen when suddenly I felt a strange pull to the right, looked down, and saw that the front right wheel of the walker was splayed out of line. Got up and walked it to my desk where I could sit in the chair and see what was wrong. At first, I thought it was a loose joint and could be temporarily fixed with that magic solution, duct tape. I would walk it everywhere and only sit when I was perfectly still, like brushing my teeth. Good plan but faulty. As I was walking through my tiny kitchen, that whole leg of the walker broke off and hung uselessly in the air.

I was lucky to make it to the bedroom corner where an old-fashioned walker waited—the kind with no seat, no way to carry anything. It takes both hands to balance and use it. I was essentially helpless. I could go from desk to bathroom to bed, but that was about it. And I was the only one home.

I did two positive things: I put a notice on the neighborhood email list that I needed to borrow a seated walker, and I ordered a new one from Amazon—they promised Tuesday delivery. Then I went to bed.

This morning, lying in bed, I ran through all kinds of options in my mind—a friend whose husband had died might still have his walker, I could use my transport chair as a walker, I could rent one from a handicap store. It took me five trips to assemble and carry Sophie’s food, medication, etc. from the kitchen to the desk where I could sit to mix it altogether.

I went back to bed and wondered if it was worth getting up. I might have stayed there except I remembered two women: Mrs. Taylor lived across the alley when I was a kid. She had bad arthritis and decided she would spend just one day in bed—she never walked again; a friend’s sister, in her late seventies or early eighties, announced that she was tired and was going to spend a few days in bed. She died before her few days were up. I practically jumped out of bed.

Jordan came out dutifully bearing duct tape—I hadn’t updated her. She immediately ruled out using the transport chair as too dangerous. When I mentioned renting, she said we could make do until tomorrow when Amazon delivers the new chair. She made my tea, refreshed my ice water, took me to brush my teeth in the transport chair because I really don’t think I could balance to brush them while standing. She got me settled at my desk and came back to fix my lunch.

Sophie watched all this carefully. The transport chair alarms her because it means I am going somewhere. When it stood in the kitchen, and I was still at my desk, she was clearly puzzled.

Then Jeannie called. She had a walker in her car from the resale store at the retirement community where she lives and she was on her way to my cottage. You cannot imagine how happy I was to take my own dishes to the sink and wash them, tidy up the kitchen and the bathroom.

Two lessons came out of this, the first rather obvious. I pride myself on being rather independent despite my mobility challenges and yet, I am almost completely helpless without one special piece of equipment. If I can’t sit in various locations, I can’t cook, wash dishes, make the bed, brush my teeth or put on makeup—a whole lot of the little business of daily living is beyond my grasp. Without my four-wheeled walker, I would need a lot more help each day.

If that lesson was humbling, the second one made me feel much better. Jordan has been out of town almost a week, helping Megan tend to Brandon who broke his jaw last Tuesday. When I said this morning that I had chicken for a sheet pan dinner tonight, which I thought would be easy, she said, “If we don’t have a walker, I’m not cooking. I don’t want to be on my feet. I’m exhausted.” So I realized that’s my contribution in this cooperative living arrangement—I do a lot of the cooking, and it’s a real help to them. That makes me feel a lot less like a burden and more like a contributing member of a team.

To add troubles to troubles, the wonderful lady who cleans for us once every two weeks cancelled this morning because of an allergy flare. The cottage is dirty and the laundry basket full. I am so disappointed! And so spoiled, and I know it.

The week is bound to get better. Hope your Monday was better than mine!