Front Porch: Aging’s rough, but it could be worse

We baby boomers know all too well that aging can do unkind things to our bodies.

Some of it is just normal stuff – maybe a slight hearing loss, slower gait, sluggish GI tract. Or maybe a little more impactful – high blood pressure, type 2 diabetes, heart disease. Or some of the big guns – stroke, cancer, Alzheimer’s. And maybe worst of all is the feeling of vulnerability, sometimes depression, that comes along sneakily as we see our strong selves being diminished.

Sure, there is some foreshadowing in our middle years. It could be as subtle as needing a few quick winks after dinner so you can go out and dance the night away afterward, when in your younger years that wouldn’t enter the equation. It could be the flashing yellow light at the back of your brain warning that one more game of pick-up basketball might be one game too many but you go for it anyhow. But in those days we were all young(ish) and getting on with life, too busy to mull these little markers.

So then – if we’re lucky – we get old. With a reasonably healthy mindset, we understand that older bodies don’t do what younger ones did, that they’re more vulnerable and that they just don’t work as well any more. And we adjust. Yes, yes, yes – there are those wonderful octogenarians who go helicopter skiing, but they’re not most of us.

I find that among my peers we’ve all got something going on that interferes to one degree or another with our quality of life – from aching knees to heart attacks. Whether retired or still on the job, the old bod and brain aren’t working quite as well. In addition to dealing with the particular affliction(s) is coping with that insidious creeping sense of how this make us feel lesser. Or to take it to its conclusion, it signals that death has taken notice of us and is assigning a place for us on the list.

It’s hard not to feel down about all this sometimes. I got started with this dealing-with-age- related-afflictions a little early when I got a glimpse at that smug and smiling grim reaper in my mid-40s. I had a stroke, that thing that’s supposed to happen to old people. With intense rehab I learned how to walk properly again and use my right arm and return to my life as a wife, mother and many more years in my career. That’s the good news.

The bad news is that for the past 23 years I’ve had to be conscious always of where and how I place my right foot when I walk, be aware of the weakness in my right arm and compensate accordingly and never ever ever try to turn around quickly. Balance is no longer a reliable friend.

It’s all manageable, but the effects and the dealing with them are always there, kind of like white noise. They occupy space in my brain, which I resent. Not to whine, as a lot of people have it a lot worse. Still, it’s my reality.

Then add on a few other issues (none immediately life-threatening, thankfully) that the passage of time have delivered to my doorstep and I now have a daily drill that occupies way too much of my time. That remains hard to wrap my head around. To mention one, there are pills I need to take at specific times; some with meals exclusively and some that cannot be in combination with others; some that need to be crushed and mixed with yogurt or applesauce. And in order to not be dosing myself all damn day long, I take some in the middle of the night. Did I mention the need to get up at night for bathroom purposes in the list of age-related visitations?

When did I go from being a wash-and-wear person, that person who hops in the shower in the morning and out the front door within seven minutes to this gray-haired lady with pill containers on the kitchen (and bathroom) counter? Inside me I’m sure there’s still this 16-year-old girl, the captain of her high school swim team who could do no-handed cartwheels? She’s still in there somewhere, but she now has to use her arms to help push her up out of a chair because her legs aren’t quite strong enough to do the lifting all alone.

I don’t want to be 16 again. It had lots of downsides. And I am delighted to be the age I am, really, especially since I never thought I’d get here. I discover new and interesting insights all the time. And I certainly expected that at least some uninvited ailments would visit me. I mean, nobody gets a free pass, right? What I do hate is all the compensating and adjusting. I hate the drill, the need to minister to myself at regular intervals during the day. And to remember to do so. It’s mind numbing and so distracting from … well, living.

The irony, of course, is that like so many other boomers, I need to do all the things I need to do to maintain my quality of life. Catch 22.

And when I get down about it all, which I do, I just try to push through. It could be worse. I could be afflicted with things for which no help is available. I could be without the kind of medical insurance that helps pay the freight. I could be laid up. I could be dead. Eventually, I smile again because I’m not dead yet, because I’m going to go sailing this Saturday with my husband, because my overseas son is coming home next month for a visit.

Seize the moment. Life is still good – even in its older version. And even when it hurts a little.