THE SOUNDS AND SPILLS of AGING

 There should have been alarm bells. But no. There were no five alarm warnings.

We were never warned about the sounds of aging. However the sounds of aging have become particularly worrisome to me. 

My grand and great grandchildren - plus an unfortunate number of movie makers - seem to think farting is funny. I find flatulence terribly embarrassing. Although it’s a common sound during the aging process, I just don’t find the humor in it. In my twisted mind, women especially, neither fart nor snore. Call me a prudish old fool but to be caught doing either is just plain humiliating. Thus I am often red-faced and mortified. A cough does not cover the body’s release. Loudly accusing the innocent dog of making the offending sound rarely works either.

Asleep, with no way of monitoring my snoring I make it a point to take a nap before venturing out to the theatre, movie, concert, any night time event where I may inadvertently snooze.

 No one cared if my old dog Bob snored but he did have a disturbing indigestion problem. The vet put him on a special restrictive diet. Still, Bob was a great mixed-carin rescue companion for many years who usually slept in my office while I wrote. In time I’d grown more or less immune to the sounds of his stomach gurgling and making all sorts of strange noises. One day, the noises were extraordinarily loud and seemingly non-stop. I looked to where I thought he was on his office bed to see if his noises were keeping him awake. But Bob was not in my office. I was alone. The strange noises were coming from me. Even alone my body grew hot with embarrassment. How does one stop the gurgling sounds that creep up without pain and therefore without warning? What if the stomach serenade happens during a dramatic pregnant pause during a theater scene?  A single cough just won’t cover unceasing sounds.

And don’t get me started on carbonated sounds. We used to burp; now we belch. The sound starts in our toes and gains momentum and power in the belly until a belch emerges, resembling the call of a wild moose or worse a fog horn.

Then there are the spills and ensuing stains. No matter how careful I intend to be, no matter how small the bites I take, I have never spilled as much of my meal as I do now. And usually the spill lands on a new and expensive blouse or pants that will be forever stained. It it’s red wine I spill, I cry.

In his later years my husband never wore a tee-shirt more than once. The spills never stopped. People always wondered why he wasn’t wearing silk shirts. He could afford them after all.

This free fall of food, drink, makeup and anything else I might be holding may be the result of less than acute eye-sight. But I do wear glasses and have my eyes regularly checked.  It’s not a case of cataracts; those were taken care of quickly and simply years ago. (Never fear cataracts!)

My hands were the source of my shaky problem. “A familial tremor,” the doctor pronounced. A sudden case of shaky in different body parts is a common complication among aging men and women. When my hands tremble, I smile and say, “Essential tremor” and shove the offensive body part into a pocket. (I always buy clothes with pockets and I don’t eat soup when dining out. It’s a rule.)  Shakes can be misinterpreted as signs of alcoholism - but not as much if you’re over 85.

Shaky just happens, usually at the least desirable time and that cannot be disguised by a cough either.

If, in some kind of mindless stupor, we raise our hands to our mouths we not only call attention to the tremor but display the raised veins, thin skin, liver spots and crepy wrinkles of our hands. Gloves offer a solution. But you can only successfully hide your hands in gloves on winter days or if you’re a debutant or performer who wears formal gowns with gloves that fit up to your armpits. But if you’re wearing gloves on a warm sunny day they also serve as a dead giveaway to advancing age.  (Forgive the use of the term dead. No one over seventy years of age likes to hear the term. But sometimes it’s the only word.) 

Back to my appreciation for clothes with pockets.

Apparently essential tremors can be the result of DNA. My paternal grandmother’s familial (or essential) tremor resulted in a shaky head. She didn’t worry about spills and she could eat soup in public. Her kindness and sweetness never faltered.

Grandmother knew what really mattered. So I choose to deal with the sounds and spills of aging and enjoy each breath of life!

WHAT'S NEXT?

 It feels rather like being the lone occupant on a huge slide. You’re sitting on the very top looking down and understanding the only way off is down.

But what’s waiting along the way down?

It’s the “what next” that disturbs seniors. I use the term seniors rather than writing "persons who have achieved a super advanced age." Everyone knows more or less what a senior is.

Seniors are young-old…from 65 to 74, middle-old is anywhere from 75 to 84 years old and then there is old-old, 85 years…’Till Further Notice.

The American Geriatric Society and the World Health Organization define oldest-old as an individual over eighty while the British geriatric Society uses eighty-five as the threshold for the oldest-old among us. Which I prefer.  Still, that particular designation doesn’t remove me from the top tier. Being very old. Older than I ever thought to be. But with the experience to write about…what’s next.

By the time we reach until further notice, we’ve kicked around a bit on the Golden Years Playground. (Whatever you do, stay away from the merry-go-round. Another spot you might not be able to readily jump off.)

During these so-called Golden Years, we’ve taken meds for very dry eye, body-aching arthritis, and sky-high hypertension.

The most popular topic of discussion at early bird dinners has become Health. Our health, our neighbor’s health and the person we met yesterday in the doctor’s waiting room. (Doctors are specialists so one is not enough anymore. We may be personally acquainted with four or five waiting rooms.)

“What’s next?” Is it a huge locomotive heading down the tracks right at us?  Or an ugly case of the shingles? Have you had the shingles vaccine? (Even if your memory isn’t all it used to be, we can never forget the vaccines!)

There’s a reason for having more than one glass of wine as the possibilities are explored.

I know because I’ve been to more of these dinners - and lunches - than I care to admit and heard the concerns. Maybe voiced a few myself. There comes a point in the aging process when it seems it’s just one thing after another - and usually not in a good way. Which leaves one thing to discuss: the state of your health. Or your neighbors, or your Uncle Stan’s.

As we age, our horizons aren’t as broad as they used to be. Most of us are retired, we’ve lost our professional identity, we don’t travel as much as we used to and we don’t attend parties and concerts any longer. Inevitably, these events begin about the time our day ends.

So where do our conversations  take us? Not to politics if we care about keeping our friends.

So, when it seems like one thing after another, we all wonder. Our bodies are on the decline. Our well-used parts are wearing out. We ask ourselves and anyone who will listen, what’s next?

It might be an all-to-common broken hip. (Don’t fall! Everyone will tell you that - like you would chose to fall willingly.) Or maybe what’s next is a months’ vacation on the French Riviera. Well, dreams happen.

A sense of humor on the Golden Years playground is the best way to deal with whatever comes next.

Who knows? What’s next might come as a delightful surprise.

Every adventure in aging depends on a little bit of laughter.