First on my block...

  “Be the first…” 

I didn’t want to win this contest. It’s not “Be the first kid on your block to have sea monkeys!”

Being the first of my friends to hang a handicap permit did not carry a sense of excitement, but shame. Somehow I hadn’t cared well for the right leg. Ridiculous, I know.

Prior to the parking advantage, my husband accompanied me to a large department store. I knew I’d need him to provide physical support on my right side while I used my cane on the left. We joked about how pitiful I looked when young employees passed us and said, “You two are so cute. Thanks for shopping with us.”

Cute? Lurching across the parking lot at one-quarter of my former speed was not cute. At that moment I coveted a parking space close to the store.

I’d resisted asking my doctor to approve the application required by the DMV because I wouldn’t accept that I’m old enough, or semi-able, and needed the accommodation. When a friend suggested it, I knew it was time. 

I only went inside a drugstore if I needed a life saving prescription. For non-essentials I ordered online and personnel delivered to the car.  

Now the hurdles between parking and front doors are fewer. I’ll expand my outings to an occasional trip to TJMaxx. I can go to a Starbucks inside a grocery store. Getting inside the building won’t be the hardest part of an appointment. The walk from parking to Trader Joe’s won’t be three times the distance of the actual shopping.

Aging tends to restrict lives in unwanted ways. It's easier to give-in to a difficulty than find a way around it. The blue hanging tag is an adaptation which I will appreciate, yet hope to relinquish. 

What is your Best By Date?

The sugar bag stated that it was BESTBY 08APR2023. That was specific, considering sugar is a dry substance and can’t harbor microorganisms that would make it go bad. 

It made me wonder what my BESTBY date was. And that led to considering the various roles I’ve had in my life, each which had some kind of peak in quality.

I was a roller skating whiz at eight. It’s gone downhill since then, and after a fall at the roller rink a few years ago, my skating date has expired. 

Likewise, my physical peak was long ago. Physical therapy is keeping me functional, but not optimal. 

As a young mom I was impatient. With maturity I became more patient. Now, I’m just enjoying my adult children, and not actively parenting. So the BEST BY has expired. 

At twenty I was the best violinist I would ever be, so that’s a half century ago. I keep plugging away, but doubt I’ll regain agile fingers and quick bowing. 

Mental acuity is deteriorating. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have forgotten the names of the flowers in my garden. Or how we got our first child home from the hospital without a car. 

2010, the year I retired from teaching, was probably the height of my career. I learned more about children and how the brain processes information after college than before. There was always some new skill to learn, or a conference to give me a new perspective. 

As a wife, I’m long past the ardor I had as a young woman, so romance is past it’s BEST BY date. But our marriage is less contentious and more comfortable now. Until one of us gets dementia, I think we'll stay "fresh."

As a person of faith, I was more zealous and active before 50. However, more knowledge about the Bible, and more wisdom about life are of more value. 

Like any foodstuff, my degeneration is inevitable, but I won’t go bad all at once--until the very end. Gratefully, I don't know what that date is. 

A note: a young computer-savvy friend suggested you may not be able to leave a comment if you are using Safari for your search engine. Please try coming to my blog via Google, Bing or Chrome. Thanks. This tech stuff is giving me giant headaches. My BestBy date never happened with computers.

They keep jumping ahead of me.

Downsizing: Releasing Dreams

I've thought about it, even discussed it with my husband. But a friend just announced she and her husband are actually going to do it! 

They are "downsizing." 

I understand why her very active, in-his-late-seventies, husband no longer wants to spend so much energy trimming trees, keeping the ivy in check, and chasing the deer away from the hosta. 

I understand the appeal of living in a townhouse development that does the mowing and plans ahead to replace the roof. 

In fact, as our stamina flags we are anticipating our later years . We don't take on new projects, but maintain our home and the garden with the future buyer in mind. 

Do they want to spend 10 plus hours a week weeding and tending flowers and veggies? Maybe not. So I called a landscaper to help us deconstruct some of our beds.  For phase one I chose the space that is currently most neglected.  Bit by bit we are digging out the day lilies to transplant.  Then we'll seed it for lawn. 

Twelve years ago I started with about 50 lilies. Oh my word. Today we split clumps, and split again. And I've already divided those into over 150 viable plants. I still have half of the bed to dig up. 

I wish our retirement fund had multiplied as fast. 

This all comes back to downsizing.  My goal is to have less gardening. But right now, I've multiplied my regular chores immeasurably. 

The lesson, I guess, is that you have to anticipate when you must downsize in order to accomplish it.  And the difficulty is multiplied when you can't let go of  "stuff." 

It's for sale on Etsy!

My mother began downsizing thirty years ago. I remember when boxes from her would arrive in the mail. My daughters quickly learned there wasn't anything any of us wanted. No use for an old Girl Scout Handbook, or the Simplicity and Vogue patterns. (Okay, I lied. I did tie one knot using the handbook's directions. And I saved a few patterns, now wildly out of style and sizes too small.)

What lies behind my reluctance to throw out the patterns? Or rip up a failed landscaping project? Or give away the piano?

I think it means releasing dreams. Some are easily surrendered. I can only relinquish others by declaring them dead and turning my back. 

Travel Fit

Last week I had time to watch people at the Seattle airport. I was sitting at the bus pick-up point for the various Alaskan cruises, so lots of folks passed by. There were so many feeble seniors that I wondered if they were on a special tour.  

flcikr, photo by doublewinky

I thought back to another recent flight when my two seat mates (center and aisle) both required wheel chairs down the jet way, were obese, and were barely able to get up out of their seats to let me take mine. What if we had an emergency? I'd be hemmed in, and possibly endangered by their relative disability. 

It made me nervous. 

Airlines can deny boarding to drunk passengers. Do they have other guidelines for other passengers who could hinder safety? I looked up the regulations of the US Department of Transportation, and only under very specific circumstances (unstated in their memo) can the airline require a traveling companion for a disabled person. But if I wasn't mobile, I don't think I would want to fly.  

I am grateful for my relatively vigorous health. As a reality check for the future I made a list. I will quit gallivanting when any of the following three apply:

- My luggage requires a cart.

- Most of my activity takes place in the dining room.

- I can't navigate the airport under my own steam.

- I don't do anything new at my destination.

- KEDS tennis shoes, pants with elastic waistbands, and sweatshirts decorated with wolf faces are my fashion choices. (Maybe that's only for the Alaska-bound.)

At that point, I'll content myself with reliving memories.

Super Grandma Needs Rescue

Some Super Grandma I am! 

I botched my last “mission” and a kind stranger, 1500 miles away, rescued me. 

I had mailed packages to both sets of grandchildren. But on one, I confused the streets and a stranger received the package. He checked the return address, but there was no name, just “Super Grandma.” Super Grandma had blown it, and he knew some little kids could be disappointed. Using his computer to do some kind of reverse search he found our phone number, called and left a message on my phone. He even offered to take the package to the kids. 

I went online to find him in the Denver, Co. directory and realized my mistake. I had used the correct house number, but the street of my other set of grandchildren. Duh!  Super Grandma - NOT! Luckily, one daughter lives 4 blocks from my white knight, so she picked up the package from him.

These little mistakes are getting more frequent, and I have some concern.  (Remember the crazy trip between airports in NYC I summarized in the Traveling Mercies blog, August 28?) A few days ago I called my husband in a panic from the gas station because I was unable to get the key back into the ignition. I tried and tried, and I feared I’d be late for a meeting. Then I remembered--I had both sets of keys, and I was trying to insert my key in his starter. 

I attribute these errors to being in a hurry, too busy, etc. But what if they’re an indication of mental decline?  I guess I’ll know it’s serious when it causes someone else to be alarmed. I flinch to even imagine myself in that state. 

I hope it’s not time for me to transform my cape into an apron.  

 

These photos were taken by Frenchman Sacha Goldberger of his grandmother. Read her story and see more photos at http://www.luxury4play.com/photography/66405-grandma-superhero.html