Growing Old is Not for the Weak

Growing old is not for the weak," my aunt used to say before she passed at eighty-five. I would usually hear the faint-of-heart speech after each one of her half dozen trips to the emergency room that oftentimes resulted in an extended-stay at a rehabilitation center. I witnessed Aunt Gracie's extreme challenges with aging and I heard her warnings, but I never gave either one any thought because I was preoccupied with chasing my tail, I was feeling good, and I had just enough arrogance to think I would circumvent completely the not so pleasant part of aging.  I'll just skip on down the road to where it simply ends. Bye Bye now, adios folks, been nice knowing y'all, so long suckers. No pain, no suffering, no visits to the ER and definitely no extended stays at the Medicare hotels, where it is double-occupancy rooms only, the food is to die for, literally, and the residents' mantra is "Heelllllpppp!" No way. Not for me. No thanks. You go on ahead without me. I'm gonna have to pass. Ain't goin' there. Nope.

"Growing old is not for the weak growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak," was the loop that was going through my head as I lay flat on my back yesterday morning while the room was spinning around me. (Age-related vertigo, my doctor calls it...old age.) As I crawled on all fours into the bathroom to give up the prior night's meal, a whisper from the toilet bowl, "Growing old is not for the faint of heart.""I hear you," I whispered back, "now shut up!" Whisper was all I could offer because the night before I had lost my voice after screaming for fifteen minutes straight from pain level 10 cramps in both legs at the same time. 

"Growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak" the loop continued a few hours later as Tom stood over me with two Hydrocodones for pain and a glass of water. Seems the elusive stone in my gall bladder (modern technology can't locate it) has come for a visit again and it has something to tell me. Let's hear what it has to say, shall we?

"Growing old is not for the weak growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak." 

"Oh, shoot! I know that." I said. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Okay," the stone said.  "You ain't seen nothing yet, honey."

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The Weak

Whimp, alarmist, baby, chicken, invertebrate, mouse, faint of heart,

quitter, shirker, scaredy-cat, gutless, lily liver, yellow belly

                                         -Google 

I'm going with "yellow belly." It has a nice ring to it.

Yep! I'm scared.

Pile a'Poo

There are those among us seniors who say that as we age and accumulate a lifetime of experiences, we should learn a valuable lesson: things are not always as they seem. Some will even boast and say that they learned this lesson long ago, thereby avoiding embarrassment, loss of credibility, diagnosis of instability, and banishment from the village. Even though banishment rarely happens anymore, I've been told that it feels like it when everyone leaves your village and you are left standing alone contemplating the error of your thinking.

It's not the error in thinking that causes the havoc and chaos that often times follow, these self-proclaimed wise old people will say. It's the hysteria that accompanies the misunderstanding that causes the floor under you--and those around you--to shake, rattle and roll. Calm, stability and the voice of reason are no where to be found, but they've left a note on the kitchen counter, "When you get your facts right and the hysteria subsides, give us a call."

As I age and accumulate a lifetime of experiences myself, I've found that 99% of the time things are exactly as they seem. I'm not concerned about that 1% I get wrong. I don't need to process, analyze, scrutinize the events in my life before I react to them. I trust my gut feeling. I'm a quick draw kinda gal who shoots from the waist, and I'm rarely wrong.

Will you excuse me for a moment? Maggie Mae is sniffing at something on the floor.

Whatcha sniffing, Sweetheart?

 OH NO! OH NO! OH NO!

NOT IN THE HOUSE, MAGGIE MAE!

TOM, COME HERE AND SEE

WHAT "YOUR" DOG HAS DONE!

What do you mean by "calm down" and I should

take a closer look before I react.  I'm looking

right at it, Tom. It's round like poo, it's brown

like poo, no doubt about it; it's poo.

I think you should stick "your"

dog's nose in that, Tom. What?

No! I will not settle down until you

get that pile a'poo outta here!  

Oh...never mind

Where did everyone go?

 Oh, look, there's a note on the kitchen counter.

Mutiny in my Mouth

It can be embarrassing at times. My lips are moving, my tongue is waging, words are coming out of my mouth, but I have no idea what I'm saying.

I blame the increasing episodes of words gone amuck on the plaque, tangles and gooey stuff blocking the information highways in my brain. My thoughts, along with accompanying words, are speeding along in the fast lane;  they know exactly where they're going; they've been down these roads thousands of times before. Then, with no warning, everything comes to a screeching halt.  Could it be a chunk of plaque in the road? Or a glob of goo? Or a twisted gaggle of tangles? It doesn't really matter what has caused the roadblock; all thinking has stopped. But the words just keep on going.

Apparently, with all of the road deconstruction going on in my head, my words have decided to veer off on to the shoulder, speed on past the slowdown and go it alone. Who needs to be chaperoned by thoughts? Not my words. After spending decades in captivity being told what to say and when to say it, they are taking advantage of the blockades in my sixty-nine-year-old brain. They can express themselves now in ways only imagined before. They invent words when the right ones are stuck in a synapse traffic jam. "I heard that The Jerry Sprinkle Show is looking for couples who don't use perphylapstix."  See what I mean? I would never say something like that because I never watch The Jerry Sprinkle Show; I prefer Maury Polvichsky instead.

My words will tell you that there's a memory problem with their host--"I can't remember if I've told you this already, but..." and then they will repeat the same story you've heard a dozen times.  What you don't know is my words like to hear themselves talk so they say the same thing over and over and over again. Have I mentioned that my words like to repeat themselves? They will say the same thing over and over and over again. They'll tell you it's a memory problem. Don't believe them. They just like to hear themselves talk. Have I mentioned that?

Without my permission, my words add much more information to a story than is necessary. "I asked the lady--the one on the register closest to the front door, not the one by the bakery--where the silk milk--chocolate flavored, not vanilla--was and she said it was on aisle 16, but when I went to aisle 16, it wasn't there, so I went back to the clerk--this time the one by the bakery--and I asked where the silk milk was--chocolate, not vanilla--and she told me the very same thing that the lady at the register closest to the front door did, so thinking I had overlooked the silk milk--chocolate, not vanilla--I once again went back to aisle 16 and... ."

OH MY GOODNESS! MAKE IT STOP!

I can't. My words have a mind of their own; they don't need mine. My inability to control them has emboldened them, and they will stop at nothing to say what they want. They will not be encumbered by brakes in the brain. Because of this mutiny in my mouth--made up words, repeating, rambling, repeating, and lies--I don't think you should hold me responsible for anything I might say in the future.

Why are you looking at me that way?

What do you mean "the chocolate brownies are all gone"? I have not gone anywhere near those brownies on top of the refrigerator today. Do we have brownies? I didn't know we had brownies. Are they all gone?

What do you mean you can see chocolate under my fingernails and on my teeth? I have been digging in the dirt, planting pornsettas, and my teeth are black because I haven't brushed them yet today.

What do you mean you can still see a brownie in my mouth? That's no brownie, honey. That's mutiny.

Summer is Gone

Summer is gone; the leaves are shedding, the flowers are waiting for the first frost, the veggies in the garden have been digested, all the hummingbirds have left. Now what? Time to come inside...and blog? Nah!