Getting Old Isn't All Bad

Most days, I say or hear --or both-- some reason that getting old sucks.

Last week, I got a bit emotional telling my daughter that I had realized another great thing about aging. The longer I live, the more I realize how much people influenced my life. Often, even though I appreciated everything everyone did for me all along, the significance of their contribution didn't become apparent until much later. The people who brought out the emotions last week were the pharmachists I had worked with at the hospital. And talking about them led to my appreciation of the dietitians, and the poor daughter had to listen to me recount the entire staff because that's what we do in this family. 

One of the benefits of being an employee at the hospital was that I could fill presecriptions while at work, and I got a discount on anything that wasn't covered by my insurance. The added benefit of working with the pharmacists on committees was that I got to know them well enough to ask for advice and they'd either hang around after meetings or join me for lunch and share their knowledge and advice.  

As I went through years of new symptoms, and new diagnoses, and an assortment of doctors trying to guess what to do with me, I discussed every new prescription, in depth, with a pharmacist. Together, the they and I ruled out most of them after weighing benefits against probablity of side effects that would require a new drug to treat it, and more side effects requiring more drugs . . .  

Together, the pharmacy staff and I developed my no drugs unless they are necessary to keep me alive policy. And I found doctors willing to work with me on my terms.

Those pharmacists undoubtedly saved my life. That didn't occur to me until decades later so even if it's possible to track them down and thank them now, they probably don't even remember me.

Tonight, as I loaded my prescriptions into daily dose slots so I will know immediately if I miss a day, I realized it's a good thing I never considered pharmacy as a career choice. I really do hate that chore.

Not being able to remember if I took my meds last night is one of the sucky parts of getting old.

Bob’s Dinner

Sylvia broke the adhesive strip with the same care she would give an infant, or the Hummel figurine in her china cabinet. She shouldn’t have taken it to heart when the new guy slammed her purchase on the meat counter without a word. What could he know about tradition at his age?

She didn’t need him. As she lifted the pair of rib eyes off the wrapping paper, she repeated the words that Mr. Jacobs usually delivered with a wink. “Just like you and Bob. One petite and the other hardy.”

Still uncomfortable with the new bridge, she would prefer something light and easier to chew, a tuna stuffed tomato or noodles with pesto sauce maybe. But she had served soup and grilled cheese the night before. Bob deserved a full meal tonight.

Not that he would throw a fit the way his brother, or James next door did when served anything other than meat and potatoes. Bob kept his temper in check at home, same as he did everywhere else. He complimented the chef and thanked her, even when she fed him quiche or slapped cold cuts, a loaf of store-bought bread, and a jar of pickles on the table in front of him and called it dinner.

She made a habit of slapped-together meals lately, but he hadn’t uttered the first complaint. A tear rolled to her chin and threatened to dive into the marinade. She caught it with her shoulder as she turned the steaks in the mixture.

How could that man still find pockets of sentiment in her heart after all these years? She sniffed, covered the meat, placed it in the refrigerator to soak, and washed her hands before ripping a paper towel off the roll to wipe her eyes.

Light-headed and unsure whether to credit blood pressure, blood sugar, or romance, she held onto the counter and waited for the room to stop spinning. As her reflection came into focus in the window over the sink, she smiled. Forget blood. Love was the only thing that took her breath and sent her head reeling so far out of control.

Likewise, Bob’s love for her must be equally out of control to see past the dry, silver mane, creases and bags around her eyes, and the sagging bosom safeguarding her committed heart. She tossed the paper towel in the garbage and stretched to full height, laughing when her breasts remained at her waist. Tonight, for no reason other than gratitude, she would wear her holiday dress for diner and shock the pants off her husband.

Secure with her returned equilibrium, Sylvia approached the stove on youthful strides. The green beans looked as ready for Bob as she felt. She lowered the flame under them and replaced the lid, wishing she could turn a knob and reduce her desire to a simmer until he came in. Maybe she should alert Dr. Koffman to stand by for Bob’s heart tonight.

Out of habit, on the way to the bedroom, her eyes dropped to the lifeless watch she wore on her left wrist. The kids told her to replace the battery or take it off. She knew his feelings would be hurt if she stopped wearing her anniversary gift and, sooner or later, he would notice and take it to the jeweler for repair. Reminding him would only reinforce his fear of losing his memory. Correct time wasn’t that important.

Her heart quickened as she rummaged the closet to find the dress. Why Bob liked the dowdy thing so much was still a mystery to her. She suspected he only said that to make her feel good, same as she did him with the blue suit. Until he told her different, she wasn’t wasting his hard-earned money on anything new. She slipped the dress over her head, stepped into her black pumps, and ran back to the kitchen to put the baking potatoes in the oven.

There wasn’t much she could do with her hair other than pin it up at the neck. He would tell her it looked nice, and she would enjoy him pulling the pins out later. Her hands weren’t steady enough for mascara, and eye colors only got lost in the lines these days, so blush and lipstick completed her primping, except the zipper. She would have to ask him for help with that when he got there. Thinking of how he’d hold the fabric at her bottom while he pulled the zipper up produced a few goose bumps.

Bob didn’t dance, possibly his only imperfection, and couldn’t half hear these days so music was her choice. Elvis matched her mood tonight – deep and sexy. She put the CD in the player, the steaks on the counter-top grill, set the table, and waited. Just this once, she wanted to use candles despite his paranoia about not seeing what he was eating but decided against anything that would make this meal less than perfect for him.

She waited in the living room, same as she had when they were dating, wringing the itch out of her hands that waited to touch him and prove he wasn’t a dream, and blinking the sting from her anxious eyes. When anticipation wouldn’t let her sit still any longer, she jumped off the couch and rehearsed the dance he would probably never give in and dance with her no matter how many years she practiced. Still, she wasn’t ready to give up hope.

Midway through the third song, a car door slammed out front. She went empty waiting for the front door to open.

“It’s Rebecca,” her first-born called as she came through the foyer.

Sylvia muted Elvis and greeted her daughter. Rebecca breezed past and took the steaks off the grill then turned to zip her mother’s dress before she opened the oven for the potatoes. “Dad won’t be here for dinner.”

“I know,” Sylvia said quickly. “Would you like his steak?”

Rebecca filled their plates and sat across from Sylvia at the table. “Mother . . ."

“I know,” Sylvia said. “You don’t need to remind me.”

“I don’t? Are you sure?”

“Don’t spoil it, Rebecca. Anticipation is often the best party. Leave me that much, please.”

A Walk With My Real Mother

   I went for a walk with my mother yesterday. I walked out the back door with the confused imposter who had been living in her body the last few years and ended up with my real mother by the time we circled the building and stopped to rest by the front door.

            Her wheelchair supported both of us until I finally let go to sit on the bench. She rode in the seat and I hung onto the handles, gripping a bit tighter than necessary. If the migraine vision stole my balance or my hip dislocated, I could imagine what she might do to herself trying to rescue me, since that’s what real mothers do.

             We had forty-five minutes to kill before the ambulance would return her to the nursing home. She called it the hospital but I think she knew the difference this time. She needed to pretend, the way I had the week before when I wheeled her to the dining room down the hall and called it taking her out to dinner.

            She tucked the surgeon’s report between her leg and the side of the chair and used both hands to drink her diet Sierra Mist, screwing the cap back on after each sip. I wondered which excited her more, having a drink in a bottle instead of a Styrofoam cup with a straw, or realizing she had the dexterity to manipulate the cap without help. Her hands looked confident. Maybe she remembered how I had complimented her penmanship when she signed the forms in the office.

            She noticed how green the grass was despite the heat, and decided the thumping noise in the distance must be a large construction tool. It must have felt good for her to be outdoors. In the last year, she had been out only to pass from a car or ambulance to whichever railed, motorized bed she would occupy next. She smiled at a little girl passing with her mother, removed the cap to take another drink, and laughed when she realized it was ninety degrees and she was wearing a sweater. People would think she was crazy but she really wasn’t even warm.            

          She remembered I had no air-conditioning in my car and apologized for making me come out. I reminded her I like heat, and said I was glad to be there. She mentioned knowing someone else was supposed to have been in my place and the nurse had to call me, but believed me when I said I wanted to be there.

            We talked about the good news from the doctor; the hip had healed and he released her to put all ninety-six of her pounds on it again. In her mind, that meant she could go home soon, and she proved once again that she was in her right mind by telling me in detail all the things she needed to do when she went home.

            I reminded her how much she appreciated the nurses and therapists at the hospital, and how she had saved every menu to show me the wonderful meals they served. She said those things were nice but she was still anxious to go home before she got too spoiled to all that pampering. 

I wanted the confused imposter to replace my real mother so I could avoid the rest of the conversation. Her eyes met mine and asked for the truth, as no one but a real mother can. 

Today, I hope she doesn’t remember that I told her the truth.

Originally published August 2006, Author's Den and Gather

Broken Spirit and Splintered Dream

 
Broken Spirit and Splintered Dream
sucked air through sagging skin.
They rattled around between cold bones
searching for a spot to call their home.

 
"Over here," Spirit cried out.
"This might start a good nest."
He plucked a sturdy silver hair,
Dream grabbed another, to make a pair.

 
"How dare that heart cast us out?"
Dream grabbed another hair.
"Worn out doesn't mean obsolete,
just makes us a little harder to see."

 
"Oh, pay him no mind," Spirit replied.
"What does that old fool know?
He thumps his chest, then takes a rest
snuggled behind a nice warm breast."

 
Dream nodded and braided the hair,
worked up quite a frisk.
She batted her eyes, bit her lip,
suggested they take an unplanned trip.

 
"If we join forces one more time
we'll lick that old ticker.
Penis is only a few feet south,
I'll bet we can entice him out."

 
Spirit forgot his broken state
and turned a somersault.
He said, "That won't be my only trick,
if you can wake up that lazy prick."

 
Dream threw on her favorite costume,
spruced up to fantasy.
Spirit consulted backbone,
in case he couldn't do it alone.

 
Together, they tracked Adreneline
oiled the rusty joints,
Spirit drove life into the muscles,
and Dream outlined new goals

 
Proud of all they'd accomplished,
the pair sat down to rest.
He took her hand and squeezed it tight.
She said, "I think that's enough for tonight"

 
Sandy Knauer

 

 





 

A Walk With My Real Mother

I went for a walk with my mother yesterday. I walked out the back door with the confused imposter who had been living in her body the last few years and ended up with my real mother by the time we circled the building and stopped to rest by the front door.

Her wheelchair supported both of us until I finally let go to sit on the bench. She rode in the seat and I hung onto the handles, gripping a bit tighter than necessary. If the migraine vision stole my balance or my hip dislocated, I could imagine what she might do to herself trying to rescue me, since that's what real mothers do.

We had forty-five minutes to kill before the ambulance would return her to the nursing home. She called it the hospital but I think she knew the difference this time. She needed to pretend, the way I had the week before when I wheeled her to the dining room down the hall and called it taking her out to dinner.

She tucked the surgeon's report between her leg and the side of the chair and used both hands to drink her diet Sierra Mist, screwing the cap back on after each sip. I wondered which excited her more, having a drink in a bottle instead of a Styrofoam cup with a straw, or realizing she had the dexterity to manipulate the cap without help. Her hands looked confident. Maybe she remembered how I had complimented her penmanship when she signed the forms in the office.

She noticed how green the grass was despite the heat, and decided the thumping noise in the distance must be a large construction tool. It must have felt good for her to be outdoors. In the last year, she had been out only to pass from a car or ambulance to whichever railed, motorized bed she would occupy next. She smiled at a little girl passing with her mother, removed the cap to take another drink, and laughed when she realized it was ninety degrees and she was wearing a sweater. People would think she was crazy but she really wasn't even warm.

She remembered I had no air-conditioning in my car and apologized for making me come out. I reminded her I like heat, and said I was glad to be there. She mentioned knowing someone else was supposed to have been in my place and the nurse had to call me, but believed me when I said I wanted to be there.

We talked about the good news from the doctor; the hip had healed and he released her to put all ninety-six of her pounds on it again. In her mind, that meant she could go home soon, and she proved once again that she was in her right mind by telling me in detail all the things she needed to do when she went home.

I reminded her how much she appreciated the nurses and therapists at the hospital, and how she had saved every menu to show me the wonderful meals they served. She said those things were nice but she was still anxious to go home before she got too spoiled to all that pampering.

I wanted the confused imposter to replace my real mother so I could avoid the rest of the conversation. Her eyes met mine and asked for the truth, as no one but a real mother can.

Today, I hope she doesn't remember that I told her the truth.

Everything Familiar

An eerie absence of everything familiar troubled Poncho, yet he hesitated to move since the bed felt more comfortable than it had in years. He compromised; didn't move a muscle other than to strain an ear and listen for sounds he normally tried to shut out - squawking birds, slamming doors, fights at the school bus stop, and Felix's damned muffler. Nothing. Surely, this lack of pain and annoyance could only mean one thing: he had died in his sleep. What a disappointing state of neither-good-nor-bad death turned out to be.

He opened an eye, found the midmorning sun peeking under the curtain instead of halos or pitchforks, and abandoned the original premise. The early morning sounds were missing because he had slept past them. He wiggled his toes, lifted an arm and leg, and then repeated the routine several times. Considering he had nothing to account for this mysterious relief, he especially appreciated the sensation of movement without pain.

Refusing to question or tempt this gift of luck, he eased from the bed and weighed options. He could use the extra energy to vacuum, or scrub the shower tiles he had neglected for so long. Or, he could capitalize on the emotional lift of having been through death and rebirth, and work on Amy's birthday poem. While making the bed, he decided the carpet and shower tiles could wait for another good day. Thirteenth birthdays only happened once, and didn't wait for anything.

This was a big year for birthdays in the Tranton family. Their baby would hit the teens,
Leonard--always Poncho's baby--would turn forty in April, with his wife following the next month. If all went according to schedule, Poncho would turn seventy before the year ended.

Walking taller than he had in months, Poncho padded to the kitchen and opened the pantry door. He bypassed the frosted mini wheats he would normally have pulled off the bottom shelf and reached up-still pain free-for the tin box on the top shelf, appreciating the heart swell that always accompanied contact with the tin.

He left the blinds closed, the lights off, the television and radio that he normally turned on for company silent, and carried the box to the table. Shielded from intrusion or distraction, he ran a hand over the faded Pansy lid. The picture on the tin was probably out-dated, which meant the matching stationary inside would be as well. That didn't matter; after writing twenty-seven birthday poems on Pansies, he would not break tradition for the sake of style.

The lid popped off easily now. With it came the memories. The week before Leonard was born, Mary had come in from her baby shower with an assortment of bottles, embroidered bibs, diapers, knitted booties and blankets - and one odd tin of Pansy stationary from her Auntie Edna. Incensed when Poncho laughed and suggested that Auntie Edna had finally lost her last marble, Mary informed him that she would write her thank you notes on that paper, making it a most appropriate gift.

Trouble started when Mary adopted a smug attitude and prissed her Pansy tin over to the Formica table she could barely fit her pregnant belly under. She mistook Poncho's smile as more ribbing, when in fact, the only thought in his head was that he had never seen her look more beautiful. Love was also responsible for the bigger smile that had encouraged her to toss the dishtowel at him.

Fixed on her goal, Mary ignored him and returned to her tin. She pulled up one corner of the lid, and another secured itself more tightly on the opposite corner. She rotated corners, turned the tin in every position on the table, held it between her knees and pried the lid with both hands, hit it with her fists, employed the assistance of the bottle opener and pliers. He had reached for the tin, offered to help, several times, but she ignored him.

Poncho held the lid to his chest now and re-ran every expression on her face that night, the emotions he had felt while watching her struggle with that tin, and all the love he had carried for her since.

Mary never got the lid off the tin, nor did Poncho open it to write her thank you notes after she died. He hadn't opened it until years later, when their first granddaughter was born, and he used the first sheet to thank his daughter-in-law for that gift.

He fanned the few remaining sheets. There were enough to cover the birthdays he had left, as long as he didn't get too wordy or mess up. Soon, boyfriends would supply whispers of love to his granddaughters. They would only look to him for wisdom. That wouldn't take much space.
Amy's thirteenth poem came easily, two drafts on the back of a dry-cleaning ad, and one perfect version copied onto Pansy-bordered stationary. While he had the paper out, he wrote a thank you note to Mary for understanding why he had never acknowledged his grief on the anniversary of her death. It was important that Leonard celebrate that date as the day of his birth without being reminded that his life had taken hers.

Poncho placed Mary's note in the bottom of the tin, wiped his eyes with a napkin, and returned the Pansies to the pantry until September, when Priscilla would turn sixteen. He took a deep breath, opened the blinds, and filled the coffeemaker with water, ready to restart his day - filled with everything familiar.

(excerpt from the novel Unlucky Horseshoe, to be published soon)