The Golden Years

GOLDEN YEARS, my A**! Ooops! Sorry, every once in a while that thought just bubbles up and out. We just went to the super market and it hurt going, there, and back. The driver that takes us is very nice. He lets everyone else out at the entrance, then drives me the 75 feet to the exit where the electric carts with the big baskets are parked. We get there at twenty to the hour and the bus is back for us at fifteen after the hour. That is less than forty five minutes to get a week’s worth of shopping done. Rush, rush. I admit we can stay for two or even three runs of the bus, but our choice seems to be to do the one-run rush.

We had a lot of fun over the last couple of weeks. It doesn’t seem to hurt as much when pure pleasure is the objective. We went out to dinner innumerable times with all kinds of excuses and several times with a real purpose, ie., birthdays, Mothers’Day, graduation celebrations, and a bunch of times just because we felt like it. Last Saturday, Sally rode up to Orlando with daughter Mary to attend Ann’s graduation ceremony (two more Masters’ degrees). For the last week we rented a car and did the accumulated chores and errands. You know, important stuff like replacing some dead fish and getting fresh batteries in wrist watches. You can’t do that sort of thing on scheduled transportation.

O. K. now we return to our normal social life – doctor visits and physical therapy sessions. The GoldenYears.

Even Tiger Woods Could be Beaten, If We Tried This Hard.

I feel like the fellow in the song my father used to sing about when he was feeling frisky. It was something about, “ Of course you can go swimming. Hang your clothes on the hickory tree, but don’t go near the water.” I don’t remember the tune nor the words, but the revised lyrics would have to do with taking a bath without getting wet. There is an old Army term for that maneuver which involves a steel helmet cover.

Anyhoo, my orders are to take a shower --- without getting legs or arms wet. The standard instruction is to encase the exempted extremities within a plastic garbage bag and bind tightly with paper tape and rubber bands. There are some flaws. a) A good definition of slippery is the instability associated with a wet shower floor in contact with a wet plastic bag . b) Strong plastic bags are expensive and rare. The plastic bags, which arrive around the Sunday Paper, fit nicely, but can be almost too rigid for tight wrapping. c) The wounds we are treating stem almost exclusively from poor circulation. Cutting off blood flow to all four extremities seems illogical.

After struggling for months to have a shower and keep the wounds dry, Sally and I worked out a system. We simply don’t try. We figured out that the medical objection to the wounds getting wet is the length of time they sit around with wet and bacteria- laden bandages covering the wounds before they are re-dressed. (Six days a week a nurse comes into the apartment and “does” the wounds and once a week I go upstairs to the doctor’s office to give the doctor a look-see”) Sally stands guard outside the shower and listens for sounds of a rotund body crashing to the shower floor. I have a very satisfactory shampoo and shower. I then let Sally help me out of the shower; tear the, now wet, bandages off. I wave at the “hurts” with a dry, folded up newspaper until they are reasonably dry. With months of experience we can pretty well tell what time to expect the different nurses to show up. We time the shower to minimize the dry-wait . Everyone is happy. It is a win-win situation. FORE!

Electric Scooters 'r Us

Last week we went to the store and placed an order and Monday my brand new, three-wheeled, shiny, royal blue chariot arrived. It is rated to attain 4 1/2 miles per hour, but I haven’t pushed it to its limit yet so I can’t verify that claim. It has a horn (a sort of shrill peep peep) and a headlight and two taillights for night forays to the 7-11 (also untested). Gas mileage is irrelevant since each night I plug it into the plug on the wall and the next morning it is ready to roll. I’ll admit I feel like a kid that just got his first two-wheeler.

I think most people live the largest part of their lives with that “It can’t happen to me!” thought in the back of their mind. It got me through a war and that only strengthened the baseless confidence. Thus, it may be that what for an ion has been called second childhood, is simply when the feeling “It can’t happen to me!” meets the reality, “Oh, yes it can!” At that point, the natural response to the realization of mortality becomes a decision to “have some fun while possible”.

So look out world!, as soon as they put the lift on the back of our car, I intend (between doctor appointments) to frolic afar!