Silly Me

“Growing old is not for sissies.”

I live in a “retirement community” where everyone is over 65, and where everyone has some sort of physical problem. As people grow old, bodies wear out. Like an old car, it is a case of, “What is going to go wrong next?”

Patsy’s problem began with her eyes. Macular degeneration left her with only a foggy perception of shapes. Then she fell and broke her hip. Now she is in a wheel chair, in which she wheels herself into the dining room for meals. She lives alone, determined to take care of herself. Today after breakfast, as we lingered over coffee, Patsy said, “I can’t stay any longer. I have to go upstairs and make my bed.”

Remember: she is legally blind!

Most of us “oldies” cope with our physical problems. What we fear is Alzheimer’s.

On the day after one woman moved into an apartment here, she came back to the dining room after lunch and said, “I can’t find my apartment.” The same thing happened the next day and the day after that. Her daughter had to find another place for her mother to live.

Losing our minds and our independence is what all of us fear.

I am lucky. Except for my kidneys, I am in excellent health physically. With most people kidney disease is a “bi-product” of another condition, such as heart trouble or diabetes. My kidneys were damaged by medication, so I don’t have the horrific physical problems of others I see at dialysis.

And I thought I was still alert mentally. I moved into this new place in August, and I am still not familiar with the neighborhood. After lunch today, I got in my Hyundai and drove out in search of four places I had never been before. I had looked at the map and planned a circular route. I went to a new (to me) gas station and figured out how to use the unfamiliar self-serve pump to fill my car. I only had to make one U-turn to get into the Time-Warner office to check on my cable tv. I found the CITI Bank branch and opened a new checking account. Final stop was at the Wal-Mart “market” where I bought cottage cheese and eggs.

I was proud of myself: I used the self-check out. It worked fine. I put my two little bags in the shopping cart and wheeled out to parking lot, congratulating myself, “I did all these things this afternoon. I am still an efficient, functioning woman.”

I was in the elevator, going up to the apartment, when I realized that the only things I had in my hands were my purse and the folder from the bank.

When the elevator door opened on the third floor, I punched the “1" and the “close door” buttons to return immediately to the ground floor. The groceries were not in the car. I pushed the speedometer up to 40 mph in a 35 mph zone as I raced back along LaPrada Drive. I told myself, “You senile old lady! This is not important. You just sold your house and have money in the bank. If you lose a dozen eggs, it won’t matter. You can afford to lose a few dollars – and it is your own fault for being so careless.”

But I did not slow down.

I turned into the parking lot at Wal-Mart. There next to the lamp post, exactly where I left it, was the shopping cart with my two little white bags inside.

The cottage cheese and eggs are now safely sitting on the wire shelves in my refrigerator. I am sitting safe and snug watching television in my recliner. But boy! Do I feel foolish – and old!.