Aging is driving me bananas

Bob Morrissey

This blog features many essays on aging and this piece is no exception.

Before you say “oh no, not again” and move on to people who can actually write, let me tease you with this: I’ve decided to focus on a body part other than legs. It’s time to give them a rest. There’s only so many words you can say about achy legs and I’ve exhausted them all.

Yes, I know from personal experience that legs hurt. We know they cramp. We know they keep us awake at night. We know they stifle mobility. We know they make it almost impossible to rise gracefully from a chair, especially when you’re enjoying a lap dance.

Or so I’ve been told.

But we also know how strong, healthy legs enhance a person’s life. Those legs helped you climb the 283 concrete steps to St. Joseph’s Oratory’s main entrance in Montreal. They helped you dance at your parents’ 50th wedding anniversary and kneel at their funerals.

If you’re an NFL fan, it was a leg that cost you a bundle when you bet on the Buffalo Bills to beat the Giants in the 1991 Super Bowl. Scott Norwood missed a 49-yard field-goal attempt in the final seconds and New York won 20-19.

I get it, some seniors endure so much leg pain they feel life isn’t worth living. And I’ll bet many of them are among those pilgrims who long ago climbed those oratory steps. But now they’re old and crippled and so incapacitated they fear living more than dying.

Like them, I believe in God … but I’m still going to talk behind His back. Here goes:

“God, why did you give us flesh-and-blood legs? We’d be much better off if we came into this world legless. A few months later, we could undergo an operation for wooden legs. We have heart transplants, liver transplants and hair transplants. We also have brainless people. Are wooden legs that big a stretch? We could change them when needed. Pick hardwood or softwood. Apply the right stain, and you’re ready for Bermuda shorts.”

But enough about legs; let’s consider hands. For many seniors, hand problems are as devastating as bad legs. They do so much more than just build and move things. Think about it: Lovers hold hands. You pray with your hands. You reach out with your hands.

You wipe away tears with your hands. When your child comes into this world, your hands bring him to your breast. It’s a hand that gives you a pat on the back and a hand that says “that’s enough.”  A hand waves goodbye, sometimes for the last time. In war, arms lift hands in surrender.

So, yes, hands are a big deal, and the world’s a lot worse place for people if they’re stiff and sore. It affects everything, big and small.

That came through loud and clear a few days ago while I was hanging up my Canadiens hoodie after doing laundry. The hoodie fell off the hanger, and while I tried desperately to snag it before it reached the floor, I accidentally knocked off my glasses. And that’s what frustrates seniors most about brittle hands: Your hands and your quick, jerky reactions aren’t quite in sync and you end up making the situation worse, like I did.

When that happens, I feel like I look like I’m swatting a fly. And it occurs often.

My problem is hand neuropathy, along with arthritis. The arthritis causes stiffness and the numbness makes it difficult doing things like turning book pages, fiddling with buttons and lifting spare change off any hard surface.

But nothing comes close to opening jars. Just ask any senior. Actually, it’d be funny if it weren’t so frustrating. I tug the lid on the apple sauce jar, then I twist it. I tap it on the kitchen counter; I bang  it with a knife handle. Then I rinse the jar under hot water. When none of that works, I consider going down into the basement to get my toolbox. Maybe I can get the damn thing off with a pair of pliers or wrench.

Then it hits me: STAIRS. Thirteen of them. All saying, “I dare you, old man.”

I head into the kitchen. I feel like an orange, but I’ll settle for a banana.

Less peeling.