In thinking about what to write for this column, I noticed that the subject of age kept popping up: my age, my mum’s, and just about every critter I’m in contact with. Since aging is entirely unavoidable, I decided to examine it in a bit more depth.
I turned 58 last November. When I was in my 20’s, I couldn’t even fathom living that long. Fifty-eight was for decrepit geezers with false teeth and a predilection for polyester clothing. When I consider the contents of my wardrobe, though, I’m pleased to report that polyester is in very short supply; this generation of boomers gravitates more toward spandex and stretchy jeans.
My mum will be 87 this May. She did fine for many years, but she seemed to go downhill quite a bit in the last three or four months. In November, she was diagnosed with a compression fracture in her spine. When the doctor showed me the results of the scan, I was appalled: in between her discs, where a vertebrae should have been, there was now nothing more than dust. There is a procedure to fix this sort of thing, and it was scheduled accordingly. When she went in for it, though, they couldn’t get the breathing tube down her throat. The doctor tried a smaller (child sized) tube, and couldn’t get that in, either. And if you can’t intubate the patient, you can’t perform the procedure that would fix her vertebrae problem.
She made an appointment with a throat specialist. Unfortunately, as often happens with her, my mum was feeling too poorly to go, that day, and has yet to reschedule. So she spends her days lying in bed, and the hubs or I stop in once a week to collect her shopping list and go to the store. It’s a far cry from her usual busyness, in which she was planning and hosting dinner parties, and plotting her summer gardens. To my considerable surprise, this independent woman seems perfectly alright with handing over many of her tasks to the hubs and I.
Meanwhile, Buddy, the 18-year old cat with dementia, spends his days lately screaming at nothing in particular. I made the mistake of rearranging our bedroom, recently, and moving the bed to a different wall. Mind you, it’s the same bed in the same room with the same coverlet, but all Buddy knows is that his usual blueprint has been disrupted in some unfathomable way that confuses him repeatedly, every single day. So he screams his objections repeatedly, every single day. I should’ve known better than to move the furniture. When I ask him why he’s screaming, he says, I don’t know, Kelly! That’s the problem!
Out in the garden, 12-year old Gimpo, the aging Rouen duck who had fish hook injuries to his leg that damaged his nerves, has been limping along since before I rescued him. It’s what’s apt to happen when these ducks are abandoned in the wild, as he was. In any case, he seems to be struggling more and more, these days, with getting himself up on two feet and walking. The hubs watches him from the window and asks how much longer I’m going to let him suffer. I always reply that he can’t be suffering much at all if he’s walking all over the garden, every day, and getting into and out of his pond. It is hard to watch Gimpo struggle, and I promise you that I’ve offered, many times, to help him get into his pen at night. But when I ask if he needs a hand, he always says, I most certainly do not!
And then there’s my boy, Bit, whose arthritic knees have gotten – and stayed – so swollen that I daren’t ride him for fear of creating more pain. Bit is pushing 28, and his age-related issues have only recently come to the fore. Let’s not forget his EPM issues, either. They flare up every spring and fall, as surely as the weather changes during those times. Then, I have to ride him very briefly, if at all, and avoid cantering altogether.
The hubs, whose capacity for excessive irritation is legion, frequently asks why I’m still leasing a horse that has so many limitations. My answer is always the same: Because he’s my boy! I’ve been working with Bit for almost eight years, now. He’s come a long way in that time, and we’ve built such a relationship together that to ride anyone else now would be treasonous and cruel. I’m willing to take things slow with him and be grateful that he’s still game.
And not forgetting the hubs, of course, who is 57 and as crotchety as someone twice his age. The very definition of cantankerous, there are times I wonder what on earth I initially saw in him. Still, he’s good at fixing things, so that’s something. And it should be said, because the hubs will point out if I don’t, that he funds the vast majority of critter-related expenses. I pay for tack, salt licks, Bit’s fancy rug, and anything else I think a horse needs, while the hubs pays for the cat food, the dog food, the duck food, the pen straw, the pond accouterments, and the veterinarian visits. Goodness! Do you suppose that’s why he’s always so cranky?!
I visited a friend of mine, recently. She’s aged 30 with a one-year old daughter. As we chatted, I watched that child go from mood to mood, grab everything within reach, and pout about what she couldn’t have. And I thought to myself, I’m so glad I’m past all that! I guess getting old actually does have its privileges.
