NOTES FROM THE NINTH DECADE

Growing Old is Easy

 I mistakenly thought that by now – weeks away from my 85^th birthday - I was prepared for what was yet to come. It turns out I’m not as wise as I thought I was. I I naively thought I exited the eighth decade prepared for whatever the ninth had to offer but have quickly learned otherwise. Despite a lifetime of pondering about anything and everything, I am learning things about myself I never realized, or was unwilling to acknowledge. It’s been easy to convince myself it’s the mirror that has changed, and not me.

Growing old is easy! The only requirement is staying alive. If you can do that your body will do the rest, and it will do it so unobtrusively and effectively that you don’t know it’s happening until each change, big or small suddenly appears in your mirror. Hairlines magically moves from here to there. The shape of your body changes as parts seem to shift and settle, and areas of skin begins to resemble crepe paper. It’s a bit of a shock at first, especially the skin part, but they’re not difficult to accept once you overcome misguided vanities. These physical (and metabolic) changes affect more than our appearance; they are accompanied by a host of functional changes that intrude on many of our lifetime routines. Simple tasks that were once accomplished thoughtlessly now require deliberation, patience, and even caution. It took only one tumble trying to get my second leg into a pair of pants to teach me to hold on to something, or better yet, sit down. The same with putting on or taking off a pair of socks. Sitting down is easy, but even that requires some attention. I learned that the hard way when I sat on the bench in our shower. I was feeling quite secure when suddenly I sensed something moving, not realizing it was me, and the next thing I knew I was sitting on the floor of shower with my head buried in the shower curtain. The only thing bruised was my self-esteem and confidence. Lesson learned.

With time and patience these new, age-imposed measures can become routine. The key word here is patience, which I believe is a requirement if one hopes to successfully navigate these later years when the waste of haste can be a serious injury. Then there is the issue of frustration, something I have encountered more in the past few years than in all previous years. I’m putting on a coat or shirt, one arm is in the right sleeve, but no matter how much I twist and shout, I cannot find the other sleeve, and I bob and weave around the room like a wasp behind a screen. Or I’m trying to pull a sock off with arthritic hands and it gets stuck and I can’t get it past my heel. These futile and extremely frustrating efforts result in a string of emotionally charged words uttered with intense passion!

But more importantly, when we move patiently through the day with conscious deliberation it is easier to appreciate and take delight in the simple joys of life. The fact that we have the option to do so is itself a gift. I am not always successful, but I try to find a moment every day to celebrate whatever it is I’m doing at that moment. Each year the passage of time accelerates at a frightening rate, and patience is one way we can slow things down. Time is a commodity that increases in value the longer live, and once it is spent it cannot be replaced.

Of course, there is no predicting the course our life will take, and how we will react to it. A funny thing happened when I turned 80. I became more comfortable with my age, and more secure about my future than I was during the previous 10 years. It feels like the previous decade was all about preparing me for the next one.

Another surprises waiting for me was recognizing some less than admirable character attributes that I am not proud of.  I prefer to think they are the recent results of my age, and not part of the person I have always been. A sobering experience for someone who thinks highly of himself.

There is a sense of accomplishment that comes with being 80 years or older that I can understand but find hard to justify. We suddenly revert to our childhood attitude toward age when we were so proud of being five and a half years old. Look at me. I’m 85 years old!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                               A Dog Named Ralphie  

The dog was old. His health was failing, and he was in constant pain. There was little joy left for a life that gave so much joy to others. Once again, it was time to make the call, a call she has made too many times over the years. It was never easy. In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult each time she had to say goodbye to a dog she dearly loved. High on a shelf in in the “dog room” sat 13 clay pots to remind her of each painful decision she lived through, each one with its own special sadness. This one was bad, arguably the worst it has ever been because of the accumulative effect of several painful losses in recent years. With the loss of this dog, she was grieving for the loss of every other dog in her life, as well as two very dear friends. The atmosphere in our home, reflecting the heaviness in our hearts, was made worse by the sadness in the eyes of our remaining dog. Bunny was grieving for the loss of her soulmate. For several days we all quietly tiptoed around each other, looking for the first small signs of levity. There was little we could say to one another, and the few words available were tired and all too familiar.

Bunny was clearly depressed over the loss of Jabber. Patience had promised her that she would never be an only dog, so it was important that she find a companion for her as quickly as possible. Acquiring a whippet can be a time consuming and lengthy affair, so she went directly to an animal shelter, and in very short order Bunny and I were introduced to the newest member of our family, a small white dog with an almost hairless body and a large hair-filled head. We were told his family was living in a car and that he was one of the two dogs they had to give up. We had several concerns. How would Bunny react to him? How much training had he received? Would he sleep in a crate. How would he react with Bunny? And of course, what will we call him? After tossing about several names, we settled on Ralphie, and considered ourselves ready for our first “little dog”.  We quickly discovered that the only thing small about Ralphie was his size. Everything else about him was extra-large. He is a wind-up toy that never winds down. This is magnified in our eyes by 3 decades with a household full of whippets who, when indoors, spend most of their time in elegant repose.  When Ralphie is not sleeping, he is moving, both horizontally and vertically. I am convinced his four feet spend as more time in the air than they do on the ground. He bounces, stands, and spins when he is excited, which happens to be his default mode. He is cute, with dark eyes and eye lashes that never end, so it is difficult to get angry at him, and he is smart, quickly responding to Patience’s training, and knowing how to use his excessive cuteness to bend us to his will. His effect on our household was immediate and dramatic. His frenzied enthusiasm is impossible to avoid. This small white bundle instantly filled our home with light. His energy and enthusiasm were infectious, bringing back the smiles and laughter that had been displaced by sadness. Ralphie’s presence filled the entire day. His non-stop motion and demonstrative appreciation for our attention and affection allowed us no time to dwell on anything but him and his funny antics. At the end of the day the newest member of our family quietly walked into his crate, ate his bedtime snack, and proceeded to sleep through the entire night, giving Patience her first full night’s sleep in weeks.

We opened our home to this little dog, and in return he opened his heart to us. In just 24 hours Ralphie had bounced his way into our hearts. Bunny needed a bit more time. She wasn’t so sure about this funny little creature barking and bouncing all around her who clearly was not a Whippet. But like Patience and I, she eventually succumbed to his charms. Ralphie, aka Little Shit, and his zest for life has reached all of us.

 

Since his arrival Bunny has become more active, even picking up a toy to ever so gently, play with it, something quite unusual for her. Unfortunately, Ralphie has not been influenced by Bunny to become less active. Patience has found her laughter, and I am in a constant state of captivation by his charms, quickly responding to his pleas to go outside to play with him and his toy. There is a new normal in the Renzulli household.