Aging
This business of getting older is a full-time job.
Gone are the days when I’d hop out of bed and face the world full of vim and vigor. This morning, I had a doctor’s appointment and immunotherapy which required an IV and an infusion of a drug I can’t pronounce, all before breakfast. Prior to that, though, and before going out, I showered (remember to put in ear plugs so as not to get otitis), tended to my eyes (drops to avoid advancing glaucoma), took the various supplements and meds to allay diabetes, high cholesterol, and another condition that I forget. Then I pricked my finger to check my blood sugars, put in my (stupidly expensive) hearing aids so I can listen to the world, and slathered a moisturizer on my dried-out feet.
I forgot where in the underground parking lot I parked my car, and the remote that flashed the headlights on didn’t work, since I’d parked on G2 and was looking on G1.
I make sure I do all my chores during the day as I can no longer drive safely at night, or in a downpour. On any given morning, my hip joints hurt. I’ve been told this was partly due to age and partly to the immunotherapy that deals with my bladder cancer and, apparently, has ceased working. The last lab tests found errant cancer cells, which means I’ll need another cystoscopy, my 28th in a decade. This in turn will lead to a month of peeing every eight-or-so minutes and making sure I’m never too far from a men’s room.
According to the latest figures, the life span of a white male in the U.S. has dropped to 74.5 years, so I have already gone past my expiration date. I try to watch what I consume and have largely given up eating meat. I neither drink nor smoke, and my last (il)legal drug was consumed in 1991. I drink decaf tea and coffee and do not partake of sweets. Shouldn’t there be a payoff?
I’ve also discovered that I now walk differently, having taken on an old man shuffle punctuated by trips and stumbles. Young people (the polite ones) hold the door open for me. I drive slower than I used to and no longer care if a 20-something passes me in an unmuffled muscle car. I tip 25 percent. I don’t eat as much as I used to and I sleep a lot more. I was amazed to learn that the crowns put in my mouth in 2000 now need to be replaced, at a cost that should buy me a small island in the Pacific. The purveyors of hair growth creams, drops and sprays have invaded my Facebook page.
It’s my contention that we live far too long. We should all pleasantly drop dead when we hit 60 and let others take our place. Instead, we hang on doggedly, as our hair recedes and clogs the bathroom drain, which is not a graceful way to go.
Gone are the days when I’d hop out of bed and face the world full of vim and vigor. This morning, I had a doctor’s appointment and immunotherapy which required an IV and an infusion of a drug I can’t pronounce, all before breakfast. Prior to that, though, and before going out, I showered (remember to put in ear plugs so as not to get otitis), tended to my eyes (drops to avoid advancing glaucoma), took the various supplements and meds to allay diabetes, high cholesterol, and another condition that I forget. Then I pricked my finger to check my blood sugars, put in my (stupidly expensive) hearing aids so I can listen to the world, and slathered a moisturizer on my dried-out feet.
I forgot where in the underground parking lot I parked my car, and the remote that flashed the headlights on didn’t work, since I’d parked on G2 and was looking on G1.
I make sure I do all my chores during the day as I can no longer drive safely at night, or in a downpour. On any given morning, my hip joints hurt. I’ve been told this was partly due to age and partly to the immunotherapy that deals with my bladder cancer and, apparently, has ceased working. The last lab tests found errant cancer cells, which means I’ll need another cystoscopy, my 28th in a decade. This in turn will lead to a month of peeing every eight-or-so minutes and making sure I’m never too far from a men’s room.
According to the latest figures, the life span of a white male in the U.S. has dropped to 74.5 years, so I have already gone past my expiration date. I try to watch what I consume and have largely given up eating meat. I neither drink nor smoke, and my last (il)legal drug was consumed in 1991. I drink decaf tea and coffee and do not partake of sweets. Shouldn’t there be a payoff?
I’ve also discovered that I now walk differently, having taken on an old man shuffle punctuated by trips and stumbles. Young people (the polite ones) hold the door open for me. I drive slower than I used to and no longer care if a 20-something passes me in an unmuffled muscle car. I tip 25 percent. I don’t eat as much as I used to and I sleep a lot more. I was amazed to learn that the crowns put in my mouth in 2000 now need to be replaced, at a cost that should buy me a small island in the Pacific. The purveyors of hair growth creams, drops and sprays have invaded my Facebook page.
It’s my contention that we live far too long. We should all pleasantly drop dead when we hit 60 and let others take our place. Instead, we hang on doggedly, as our hair recedes and clogs the bathroom drain, which is not a graceful way to go.
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