Getting older is not easy. I should know; I am an older person. The eyes, the memory, the healing, the sports injuries, the waistline, the wrinkles… the picture should be clear, for those under 55.
But older, which lies somewhere 55 and 85, although 75 might be better, does not mean “old.” By old I mean those in their nineties. These people are a special group, and I’m not sure I ever want to join them. Of course, if my memory keeps going I won’t remember I don’t want to join them.
I have intimate knowledge of the old ones. So when I see that eating lots of yogurt and practically starving are “guaranteed” ways to live longer, I reach for the chocolate. Getting old is messy, frustrating and frightening.
I couldn’t do it without chocolate; perhaps I could eat less and make sure it’s dark, not milk. (White chocolate should not be called chocolate.) Besides, all the old people I know didn’t take any guaranteed path; they just found themselves old. Frankly, some of them are rather surprised.
Anyone over 80 should be required to take an on-the-road driving test. Peripheral vision is shot, the reflexes slower, and handicapped parking spots are limited.
Recently I was in the car with an old person who practically killed me when he hit the gas while I was exiting. Old drivers avoid the speed limit by going too slow or too fast, and make seemingly random turns and speed changes. And they need to park in a “big” space even if they don’t qualify for handicapped parking. Some states just renew licenses by mail; who would renew an 85-year-old’s license for 10 years? What are they thinking!?
Body parts simply begin to wear out at some point. Replacement parts are not readily available, and being over 90 (as it should) drops one down the list. My idea of graceful aging does not include new knees, hips, and heart valves, much less new hearts, kidneys, and livers.
The nose seems a particular problem for the old. The sense of smell begins to wane; even taste can become affected. Perhaps this is why the 90-year-old drank 3/4 a large glass of milk before deciding it was bad; neither the smell nor taste seemed to readily give it away; apparently it was the lumps.
The nose also drips in old age. Some just sit around holding a handkerchief; others don’t seem to notice (which makes one wonder if the sense of feeling becomes deficient).
When I know the old person I just hand him/her a tissue or something; it seems appreciated. I notice that I am beginning to ask if my nose is “okay” after blowing it because the old often leave things hanging.
Old people seem prone to bloody noses and no more aware of those at times than just a runny nose. It is difficult to want to shake hand with even the loveliest people after watching them having just wiped away a leaking/bloody nose.
It is difficult to eat a meal while observing a nose dripping various liquids and difficult to know when interference is appreciated. It is fascinating, in a perverse way, to see how long a drop can linger on the nose before disengaging. I do not want to be one of those old people carrying essentially a clothespin to be ready for the next nose emergency.
Other parts leak and drip, too! If a woman, coughing and laughing have particularly unpleasant power. But there can be other embarrassing leakage that’s tough to talk about, and from behind some problems are hard to miss. These particular issues challenge the best of the old. But preparation can be made; there are products. Yet who wants to use them? Calling Dr. K; oh, right, he’s dead. Move to Oregon or somewhere. Do I digress?
Teeth. It is worthwhile to note that most of my old friends have their own teeth. If that is an earmark I will not be making 90 since I already have an implant and a tooth made of mostly composite. I already cut my corn off the cob! One friend has two fillings at 92. Another, who is 97, recently had a molar removed. There was a suggestion that he get an implant. I suggested he wait a while and see if he even missed the tooth. So far he hasn’t.
The refrigerator becomes an issue for old people. Check the dates, look for mold, find someone who composts, but let go. Throw something out (remember milk story?!)
Less sharpness in vision and smell leads to trouble. Let family and friends go through the refrigerator before more intestinal distress attacks that drive one to Blackberry brandy; let someone clean the whole kitchen, in fact.
The stove, microwave (where finding a spot even enough for a cup of coffee is a challenge and the window is a distant memory do not bode well for cleanliness – it can be a boon at times to be short), and ovens (spring for one that is self-cleaning, please. The kids can sell it on the net and recoup some of its value or the grandkids can use it, or donate it to a non-profit, whatever. Please. And use this feature)!
Let people help with cleaning in general. Let them change the sheets. Don’t fall at 97 while cleaning a bathroom. Treat yourself if you can and pay someone. Yes, it can feel strange because strangers come in. Let someone help delineate exactly what is to be done. Make sure someone knows what’s going on. Pay automatically. Then relax. Go to the library. Have a friend over.
While arms seem to be in better working order than many other body parts, I must note that they often develop enough brown spots to imitate quite a tan. The skin wrinkles and the veins are clearer. The upper underarm jiggles and sways. It is not attractive. I am already amassing a number of lightweight over-shirts to hide them, since there seem to be unsatisfactory medical procedures to solve these issues.
The legs sometimes just seem to give up. They simply don’t want to run, climb stairs, or even walk any distances. Orthotics are de rigueur. These feet want sneakers and practical footwear. The legs often bow. The knees are replaced as are the hips. Canes are cool, but walkers are just too embarrassing for public, which means the old often stay in.
The back may be bent. How does that happen? Don’t they notice it start and do exercises? I’m beginning to think it happens overnight and then it’s too late. I want to just yank them straight! My husband says I better get on it; he sees it starting!!! There are things to be done to prevent Dowager’s Hump! (What a great name, given because so many older women develop it!)
This particular generation of old people remember the Depression. Regardless of their pensions, they are not into waste. Re-sew the pillowcase; since most of the stuffing in the pillow is gone, it will still fit. Wear those clothes from 25 years ago because they are still good – they are too big (or small), too dressy, and out of style, but who cares? They don’t match, but so what?
Wear those dress shoes for gardening because they’re in great shape, and who gets dressed up anyway? And that lime green shirt ordered on-line (an instance when computer ability is an issue) does look best in the closet. And it definitely does not go with the Irish green pants, also ordered on-line, even though both are green.
I love my old friends, but the old are different; they march to a different drummer, and I am not sure I want to join that parade.
I know, I know. It’s not all gloom and doom. But I recently spent some intensive time with multiple old people, and realize I’m just not that far away. (I’m still a “junior” senior citizen, and they are “senior” senior citizens.)
And while living a Spartan life in hopes of longer life doesn’t appeal to me, a long healthy sounds fine, in theory. If I have to work until I’m 90 for health insurance and the mortgage, forget it! Certainly my pension, which is small and carries no real benefits, does not allow for a stress-free old age.
Richard Lamm, former governor of Colorado, said that the old have a duty to die. One reason given was the extraordinary and expensive medical procedures that were used on the old, often without their consent or understanding. I want choice and dignity. I better get my end-of-life paperwork together. Maybe I should move to Oregon.
Barbara Wolpoff lives in Boulder.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is an online-only column and has not been edited.
