There’s nothing funny about old age, yet my husband and I sit and laugh at each other like a pair of old circus clowns. He forgets people’s names, but remembers faces. I remember names, but wish I could forget a host of haunting faces.
Old age sneaks into your castle and steals your brain, your eyeballs, your arms and legs, and jumps up and down on your back like an elephant on a trampoline.
And that’s not all. Those four teeth you’ve been brushing ten times a day? Gone! Like the morning dew.
But old age leaves you with something, at least. Wrinkles. Thousands of them, carved deeply into your skin. And little dough boys and flabby skin hanging like moss from an old tree. How kind and considerate. Just what I always dreamed of having when I was twelve!
Old age is a sinister beast. It will never leave you. It will never forsake you. It will viciously suck you dry. It never sleeps. It never dies. Around the clock, it prowls, seeking whom it may devour.
Old age is neither a gentleman nor a lady. It’s rude. Insensitive. Brutal, a serial killer of the worst kind. But, have no fear! Death will set you free!
Yeah. Like I said. There is nothing funny about old age.
Ever had one of those days when you just knew that it was out to get you? One of those days when all your energy got sucked up by a greedy monster before you even rolled out of bed?
We were trying to beat the heat to get caught up in our yard work. Funny how much easier it was before we got old. From sunup to sundown, I’d work like a madwoman till the job was done. One day, my neighbor made me stop long enough to eat lunch with her. That was annoying, but what could I say? She was a good, old southern cook.
But those days are far behind me now. Sometimes, I don’t realize how far behind me till I try to play catch-up with everything I should have gotten done already. Like I said. We were trying to beat the heat, like two old turtles trying to cross the road before they become roadkill.
My husband climbed on the mower, and I went to work rearranging the rocks bordering one of the flowerbeds. Nature has a way of moving things around when you’re not looking. The skies were overcast, and the humid breeze was pleasantly cool. Perfect day for working in the yard.
I was digging a stubborn rock out of the dirt when suddenly, my hands and arms were stinging and burning like fire. Stomping my feet, I ripped off my gloves, yelling and waving my arms like a scarecrow in a hurricane, “Yellow jackets!”
Jumping off the mower, my husband helped me to the house and called 911 as I stood at the sink, whimpering like a wounded puppy, splashing cold water all over my arms.
Oh, it hurts! Oh, it hurts! Suddenly, my heart started racing, and my arms and legs turned to spaghetti. I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die! Hubby helped me onto the bed, and by the time the EMTs arrived, everything had settled back down, except for the excruciating pain.
The good news is, I didn’t die. The bad news is, I continued getting worse until after ten, long, miserable days of intense itching, burning, and swelling, I finally broke down and went to Urgent Care. I wish I had gone sooner, but this wasn’t my first rodeo with yellow jackets. But it was my first for multiple stings, with one leg in the grave already! I will know better next time. Wait! Did I just say next time?
I’m fine, now. The yard is still screaming its head off, and it’s hotter than blazes outside. And since I’m not a glutton for punishment, I’m staying inside until it gets cooler, like around September. Or maybe October. Maybe I’ll just wait until Spring, before it gets hot, and I have to start this insanity all over again.
So, it’s been a while since I’ve written, or even wanted to. For many reasons. A library full of reasons. All frustrating. All senseless. All just down right debilitating.
As some of you know, I’m old. Some days, I’m walking on air. Most days I’m crawling over broken glass. Naked. My mother told me not to get old. But I never listened to her. I have my own way of doing things. Besides, getting old can’t be that bad. Can it?
Oh, yeah!
Of course, I do have a Chicken Little view of life; a mind-set I’ve been working on for ages. And that in itself is bad enough, especially when you’re old, and everything is falling apart, with no signs of things ever getting better, because your body has gone on strike!
Yep! The sky is falling! The sun has quit shining and will never shine again. The only thing waiting for me at the end of this suffocating, dark tunnel is a pine box adorned with flowers that are doomed to shrivel up and die, too.
Old age is scary for people like me. Even people with their heads screwed on tight have their scary moments. But Chicken Little people are just, flat-out doomed!
Trust me, old age is tough. Especially for those of us who takes the bull by the horns and does whatever needs to be done. People of action. People of strength and determination. That’s me. And that’s the woman I miss. My younger self. The one who packed up her bags and left me stranded just when I need her the most. Just when the house is falling apart, the yard is washing away, the weeds are taking over my flower beds, the trees are sky-high and dropping limbs all over the place, and everything is shot to smithereens. Betrayal of the worst kind!
Frustration laced with anger and confusion and fear and grief and loneliness and depression hardly covers the overwhelming feelings at times. Bawling my eyes out helps. Talking to God helps the most. I do that a lot these days. Who else understands me more? Who else can give me the strength and wisdom that I need? Who else can calm my fears?
So, now you know why I haven’t been around for a while. And now you know for real that old age ain’t fun. But it’s not all bad, either. I don’t have to set the alarm anymore. That’s a plus . . . I think.
Straight From the Heart 