“Damn! You’re old as shit!” That’s what Dan*, a friend and former colleague, texted to me last year after I’d informed him that I’d just turned 60.
“And you’re so ugly you almost hurt my feelings!” I replied with a laughing emoji.
Dan and I have always had that kind of friendship – if one of us didn’t insult the other, we might think we were mad. It’s a man thing actually.
I’ve had those so-called “senior moments” where I walk into a room and wonder why. I find myself occasionally losing my balance and stumbling or literally bumping into something. A bruise just below my left knee hasn’t healed after several months. It’s like a dark, small-scale version of Jupiter’s “Great Red Spot”. A night light in my bedroom is one that I used to turn off at 10 p.m. because I generally have to sleep in total darkness. Now I keep it on 24/7.
Albeit a former gymnast and taekwondo practitioner, I can no longer do deep knee bends. My left knee in particular seems to get caught whenever I bend it. In March of 2021, a close friend posted a picture on Facebook of himself squatting beside a vintage vehicle. His wife and daughter had treated him to a vintage car show for his birthday. I congratulated him and then added, ‘BTW, how long did it take u to stand back up from that squatting position? LOL!’
Earlier this year I wrote how I moved my Uncle Wes* and his cat, Leo, into my home. Wes had just turned 84, and – after a hard life – his body is slowly giving out on him. I don’t know how much longer he has, but I’m glad I can provide him a safe home in these final days. And then I look in the mirror and think, ‘Damn! With any luck (if you can call it that) I’ll be his age.’
My father was 83 when he died in 2016, and my mother was 87 when shed passed away four years later. I have a few other relatives who have made it into their 80s. My paternal grandmother died in 2001 at 97. Aside from their longevity, all of them had one other thing in common: they had loved ones caring for them as they aged.
I did get some good news recently, though. I had visited a local urologist, mainly for general male-specific healthcare, but also because I’d noticed a significant decline in energy and focus over the past couple of years. I attributed the latter simply to age, but I wondered if I needed testosterone replacement therapy; a growing practice for older men. I had some blood drawn at the urologist’s office and then visited the doctor again to discuss the results.
And the results were phenomenal. I measured 534 ng/DL (nanograms per deciliter) of testosterone, which puts me in the 35-40 age range. Most men my age fall into the 300 spectrum. I won’t necessarily reclaim my lost title of “Stud Burger” (or maybe I will), but to say I’m as healthy as a 35-year-old feels pretty good. The urologist doesn’t want to put me on any kind of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) as that could eventually hurt me more than help.
So the only possible cause of my fatigue is the result of another blood test by my regular doctor more than a month ago: low sodium levels. I grew up in the 1970s and 80s, when high cholesterol and too much salt in one’s diet became alarm bells of concern. I remember talk in the early 80s of actually trying to ban salt in processed foods. It was met with the same response Ronald Reagan got when he tried to get the state of California to label ketchup as a vegetable.
A couple of months ago I was discussing age with a close friend who’s a few years younger than me. I highlighted my concerns about my own aging; that I have no siblings (and therefore no nieces or nephews) and no children. Going back to what I stated above: I’m getting older alone.
“I hear you, brother,” he responded. He’s mostly in the same position, although he has a sister.
Regardless I have to say that I’d rather get to be this age – and experience the myriad agonies that come with it – than to die as a very young man. I lost a close friend to AIDS in 1993; he was almost 32. During my tenure working at a retail store in the 1980s, two of my teenage colleagues were killed in auto wrecks. I look at photos of young military men and women who died in the Afghanistan and Iraq wars and recollect what I was doing at their age.
So I’m doing okay. Gray hair or not – I’m at a good place in life.
*Named changed
Chief Writing Wolf 