Nosedive into the 80s

Bob Morrissey

Recently, I was leaving Walmart carrying a bag of heavy groceries when I heard the shuffle of boots behind me. It was a young lady running after me, waiving two items in her hand.

“You forgot these at the cash,” she said, trying to catch her breath. Then, with a naughty grin: “Aren’t you a little old to be playing hide the salami?”

With that, she handed me my salami and knit toque. I had left both behind when I reluctantly bagged my groceries, an irritating chore that’s become pretty much the norm lately.

“Hide  the salami?” I said, arching an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I found the salami under your toque,” she said. “It’s a joke. Hide the salami … you know, it’s like when a couple …”

“Oh, now I get it. It’s like when adults hide various types of processed meats from one another. If you find it, you get to keep it.” What I really wanted to say was, “I don’t hide things these days, lady; I just misplace them.”

I thanked the woman, retrieved my items, and headed to the parking lot where I immediately had a senior moment. I looked for my car but I couldn’t find it. What gives?

Usually, my Chevy Cruze sticks out like a festering cold sore because: (a) I’ve either accidentally left my engine running, or (b) I’ve left the driver’s side door wide open. Looking perplexed and slightly embarrassed, I used my car’s fob to trigger the alarm. Not only did it NOT point me in the right direction, it triggered my tinnitus.

A few minutes later, I spotted my car — 30 yards to my left, sitting in one of several big puddles in the lot. That explained my damp feet. What a relief! Usually, any damp spot on my lower body means I’ve had a little “accident.”

But that’s life in the slow lane for many 80-somethings. If you think your 70s are tough, wait ’til you hit your 80s. That’s when almost everything except nodding off is an effort,  and frustration and fear are fickle companions.

It doesn’t help that old age has turned us into basket cases. We limp, shuffle, wobble and fall because of arthritis or just plain poor balance. Our knees bark and our hips and back ache. (Hello spasms, my old friend).

Getting out of bed is so arduous that, once accomplished, we long to literally crawl back under the covers — and remain there for the winter. We avoid stairs and low-slung couches, toilets and car seats. If there were a seniors’ Olympics, bending down to put on shoes — or slippers — would be a marquee event. And don’t even think about standing in long lineups.

Did I mention that our once trusty fingers now seem to have a mind of their own? So we fumble and drop things … and that means loud swearing before bending to pick them up. Sometimes it’s one or two of our six daily pills. Opening jars or containers that require twisting is no picnic either. Say goodbye to those pickles you love.

The truth is, most of our outings are for medical services. I’ve been to enough hospitals and clinics lately that I now wear my medicare card on a chain around my neck 24/7. Here’s how prepared I am: I won’t leave home without having a list of my prescription drugs in my wallet just in case I lose consciousness, most likely inside a Tim Hortons.

Truth be told, I’ve shrunk so much with age, I now look like human Timbit. I also keep my last will and testament in my car’s glove compartment, and I’m this close to hanging a rosary from my rear-view mirror.

My hospital visits are the result of recurring basal cell skin cancer on the tip of my nose. Although it’s non-invasive, it’s still nerve-racking.

After several biopsies, there’s the initial surgery to remove the cancer, followed by three procedures, spaced about a week apart, for nose reconstruction. That reconstruction requires a skin graft taken from your cheek, starting just below your nose and extending down to your jaw. It leaves a barely noticeable six-inch scar. (See the post-surgery, current and projected recovery photos below.)

In between procedures, there are appointments every two days at a clinic where a nurse changes your bandages. This is by far the worst part of your medical journey. Basically, it’s six weeks of discomfort until the bandages are no longer needed, and you can finally breathe and eat normally again.

But here’s the thing: for those six weeks, all those aches and pains take a backseat to your illness. They even seem trivial, compared with what so many others go through.

Most patients I shared the hospital waiting room with were old, and many were immigrants. There was little talking but still lots of noise because most had their smartphones out.

But there was one man I’ll never forget. He was about 250 pounds and in a wheelchair. It was my first appointment and I had just nodded off when his caregiver pushed him over my foot. That turned out to be the most pain I felt during my whole ordeal.

In my case, members of my medical team became temporary friends. They were all kind, patient and professional. In a strange way, I started looking forward to the social aspect of my appointments, and miss them now that treatment is over. We had a lot of laughs in between all the needles, slicing and dicing.

But being the pessimist that I am, I’m back to worrying about all those aches and pains — plus my big toe now because of the unapologetic Mr. Wheelchair.

When you’re in your 80s, there’s aways something coming down the pike, and it isn’t always good. Everyone’s turn will come. Such is life.

SEVEN WEEKS AGO:

PRESENT TIME

RECOVERY COMPLETE (BUT FOR ONE LAST FINISHING TOUCH)