On Aging. Episode 1.

The Wallpaper Era

I thought this to be a good series to start here. I remember Ronni, on As Times Goes By, a brilliant blog on aging, was such a help to many of us (many of us still in our sixties and seventies back then) telling us what to expect and not to expect. Sadly, she died about six years ago. Cancer.

This brought to light for me a conversation with the brother who is nearest in age to me. He turns 80 this November and has just survived major surgery to remove a large tumour from his lung. It appears to be benign, but his team is keeping a close eye on it.

On our family Zoom (siblings only) last Sunday, he shared this new, to him, phenomenon, from his hospital bed. He has had more visitors to his hospital room than he has had in all of last year. His sons, their spouses, their children, As they gathered in his hospital room, he noticed that all the conversations took place around him, not with him. If he voiced any kind of opinion, he was thrown a benign look, and the conversation carried on, ignoring whatever he had injected into their talk.

I laughed. I said to him "You are now in the Wallpaper Era of your life." "What?" he said, and I told him. The Wallpaper Era, a time period I may have invented, but I stand to be corrected, is when the youngers around you pretend to listen to you, discount what you are saying, and carry on chatting with each other as if you are the simpleton in the room, indulged, but basically ignored. "That's it exactly!" he said and cracked up too. Note: this brother has lived all over the world, worked with the famous and well-known, designed buildings, became an expert on renovating historic buildings, etc. He's still as sharp as a tack.

I noticed this again last Christmas at a huge family gathering. So many youngers, who are delightful, and I love their conversations and intelligence. But there was this ignoring of the only elder in the gathering, moi. No matter what I said, there's this look of indulgence on their faces, unconscious, I am sure. And I know whatever I say will be tolerated. But what the hell would I know? I'm ancient and live in some yesterday they only read about in history books. Imagine, no smart phones, no TV, maybe a radio, no Spotify? What on earth would I have to offer that's in any way interesting? And I don't blame them. I don't show them my Spotify, the fact that I add new songs all the time that take my fancy, that I keep current on many topics. That I write published articles. 

For I am guilty of the same with my elders when I was young. Found them quaint, found them laughable when they looked in horror at my mini-skirts, found their hobbies amusing but, bless them, time-filling for them. I put in brief appearances when they were gathered, these oldies who distrusted planes and motor-bikes and independence for women.

What goes around comes around. 

And we only learn through our own experiences. 

Unfortunately. 

We are unprepared.

We are, suddenly, wallpaper.

 

Unsteady As She Goes

Two wonderful Australian friends visited and took me here for dinner.

 

I told them (to much laughter) I had arranged for this cruise ship to leave as we ate dinner to enhance their harbour experience.

I get frustrated with this old age business. I'm finding lately I lose patience with myself. A lot.

There is so much on my plate and I want to tackle it all at once, just like the old days, quickly wipe my hands together and get on with the rest.

But no. I'm finding more and more I need a whole day's break between a busy day's activities.

I was complaining to Daughter yesterday about this and she said, as well she might: "Mum, you're 80 years old, that's normal!"

I don't care for this new normal.

The way my body cramps up and exhausts itself and falls down into sleep at weird times.

And then, like today, I remind myself of how sick how I was just a few years ago when the pain wouldn't allow me sleep in my bed but curled up in a chair, where I needed a wheelchair to get anywhere, where tests and procedures ran my life and those of my family, where I couldn't stand long enough to get even my breakfast put together and had to send my laundry out and I feel a flood of gratitude that I am still here and more mobile but need to honour my body, my outlook, my life and yes, ADAPT, my motto. And remain grateful in my self-reminders  of how far I've come.

So I will pace myself and know my limitations. Say no, politely and nicely and do the things I do  best and there are many and it takes a long, long time for us to know we are precious and amazing and talented and are worthy.

Our one wild, extraodinary life waits for us to wake up. 

Every single day.

Of RIPs and Life

In the past week or so I have lost 2 long time blog buddies.

The first was Ann of Twilight. Learning Curve on the Eliptic was a fountain of knowledge on the stars, on politics and on life in general. I always enjoyed her posts.

Today, was the awful news that Ronni Bennett of As Time Goes By died last evening. She and I started blogging around the same time. Her honest reports on aging and insightful commentaries on its process was the first blog to deal with the "real" side of aging - with all its ailments, challenges and discomforts. I exchanged several emails with her over the years. She was an enormous help to her huge community and was unstinting in her communication about her own dying. Gawd how I'll miss her.

Highlights of the weekend:

Daughter came in and stayed for the weekend. We had planned to watch The Queen's Gambit together - me for the second time, she for the first. But that never happened as we laughed our way through Halloween and into the small hours of the morning. The more we age together, the more we enjoy each other but we also recognise that this is extraordinarly rare. One of the topics was rate your worst dates ever. Gawd did we have a feast on that one.

But don't miss The Queen's Gambit. 10/10 from me on IMDB, a rare thing. Trust me.

I'm reading "Catch and Kill" by Ronan Farrow. Which has my hair standing on end. It reads like one of the best crime novels, with underworld spies, threats, blackmail and dark web stuff but it's all true.

Please don't grieve that POS Sean Connery. A wife beater who bragged about slapping women about. A friend of Trump's and over all horrible subhuman.

Sean Connery "An open-handed slap is justified – if all other alternatives fail and there has been plenty of warning. If a woman is a bitch, or hysterical, or bloody-minded continually, then I'd do it." — Playboy magazine, 1965. "There are women who take it to the wire. That's what they are looking for, the ultimate confrontation. They want a smack." — Interview with Barbara Walters, December 1987

A dinner of moose was dropped off by a friend tonight. Here it is in all its glory. I will get 3 meals out of it. It is to die.

Energy

Or alternative title: the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I have loads of good intentions. Like correspondence. Something that is now overwhelming me. Sometimes in a day even the texts on my mobile overwhelm me. Like I don't want to be rude and fly off a two word response, especially if others have taken the time to write an epistle, so I ignore. hoping for a massive power surge into my brain and fingers and well, that never happens so then I receive a plaintive You Okay? (or rather in text speak: U K? which can throw me wondering why the United Kingdom is part of some text quiz) which is a normal question launched to a non-responsive at my age. For we can drop suddenly. So then I have to answer and address the previous text too.

Emails are another story. Sometimes I receive lovely long ones from blog readers who have recently discovered me and write glowingly and sincerely. Now I could just simply thank them but I feel obligated to write something longer, after all they've made this effort and I'm mindful of common courtesy. But long finger is where that goes.

The perfect time never comes, of course. Today I was cleaning out my inbox. And I discovered some of these "good intentions" emails, lying forlornly and unanswered. I sound organized. "Cleaning out my inbox" when, in fact, it hasn't been fumigated in about 4 years.

Within the bowels were emails from two old lovers I hadn't bothered with either. As they depressed me. I re-read them, they were lists of health issues and the health issues of family members - distant ones even, ones I never met - and I knew why I hadn't responded, never one to get into I-can-top-that-itis in the medical ailment olympics enjoyed by many both near and far as they age. Plus I have difficulty in imagining once agile and creative lovers now prostate-prostrated. Call me callous, but gawdess, please leave me with rose-scented sheets and morning mimosas and full heads of delicious hair.

I'm finding also it's harder and harder to gobble up life when presented in big chunks. I could only attend only one of two sequential events last night. I chose a play rather than a launch of an acquaintance's book at the university. I'm at the age where I'm pacing myself. This came on me all too quickly and viciously.

This is the fog outside my window right now. Normally my view has a wee mountain with a tower at the top, a lake and a slice of ocean. I've always loved the obliteration of fog. More so as I age. I wonder why that is. Ha!

Copper

I would be most grateful for feedback on this very short story that I have struggled with on and off for about two months. I think it finished now but am totally open to suggestions. I am hoping the point of it is clear or that some reflection on elder life is teased out of readers. It's a true story.

COPPER

His middle-aged son brought the dogs for a visit every Wednesday afternoon, Scotch Terriers who looked just like the picture on the old Black and White Scotch whisky bottles. I’d be drawn to my second floor window by their ecstatic yips.

The old man would be at his open window on the ground floor, leaning out, waiting, calling them by name, Maud, Billy, over and over, his quavering voice filled with longing, his magnificent head of white hair streaked with traces of a youthful auburn. His son would hold each dog up in turn for him to pet with his crippled arthritic hands.

Someone told me they were like children to him after his wife died. He held on to the marital home until he was no longer able and his son then moved him into our no pets allowed independent senior living building five years ago. Word had it he signed over his house to his son with the understanding that he took care of the dogs and brought them to visit.

Last month he graduated from our building into one with a higher level of care. A couple of small trucks and a station wagon showed up with the whining dogs peering out the open window. Ten minutes later his son emerged from the building carrying a large suitcase. Next came the old man, tottering along on his walker, his extraordinary hair like an orange-streaked cloud at sunset. He was stooped over, reluctance in each uncertain footfall, losing more and more ground as he fell further behind his son.

But catching sight of the dogs he straightened with some effort and his eyes lit up, Maud, Billy! and they bounced out of the open car door to greet him, trying desperately to climb the walker to get at his face. His son folded the walker into the trunk as his father clung to the car door, looking up at my window. I saw tears lodging in all the folds of his face and I nodded, absorbing a little of his pain and fear.

As his son helped him into the back seat the dogs fell onto his lap in spasms of joy, his words were blurred and hoarse under the excitement of their yelping.

The station wagon moved away and was quickly out of sight. No one stands around outside to say goodbye to anyone leaving here. It’s like it’s contagious and no one’s been vaccinated.

The trucks immediately disgorged their drivers and the two men vanished into the building. Shortly afterwards, the windows to the apartment were thrown open and the accouterments of his left-behind-life were tossed onto the lawn.

Where are you taking all his stuff? asked Bertha, who patrols the grounds of our building like a border guard, all ninety years and ninety pounds of her. The men looked at each other then at her.

To the dump, lady, to the dump, one of them said impatiently. They loaded the two trucks with boxes of dishes, cheap shelving, metal tray tables, a saggy couch, an over-used easy chair, pantry items, an old mattress, a melamine headboard, sad linens, a wonky kitchen table with rusty kitchen chairs, photos in frames of weddings and children and soldiers, many albums, scrapbooks, magazines, an old console television and a stereo turntable, rickety bookcases, books, a giant bag of dog biscuits.

It took a week to air the place out for I heard the old fellow smoked like a chimney.

Professionals then came to dismantle and eject all the cabinetry and fixtures and cart it all away, some of it falling apart, missing knobs and drawer fronts.

A few days after that a pair of plumbers came. I could hear the hammering and the sound of things being torn apart, next I heard a clinking and clanging an hour or two later and looked down below and caught a glimpse of copper and for a few seconds thought it was the old man’s head protruding from the window.

But no,various lengths of copper piping were being passed slowly and carefully through the apartment window from one worker to the other.

They were then wrapped like treasure in flannel sheets before being reverently placed inside a van, to be auctioned off, no doubt, to the highest bidder.