Tag Archives: aging

Hormone It

Over the past couple of years male friends of mine have openly and shamelessly lamented the various travails suddenly burdening their aging lives.  Some have actually announced they’re experiencing hot flashes!  Seriously?!  Hot flashes?!  In the olden days (c. 1970s and 80s) I often heard my mother and other women bemoaning the onset of this dreaded mid-life scourge.  Since I only heard women complaining, I thought we men were safe and had to deal with other traumas; such as our eyebrows growing together and more spontaneous urination incidents instead of spontaneous erections.

Alas, it seems the much-loathed hot flash has zoonotically migrated into the Y-chromosome crowd.  I knew women shouldn’t have been allowed to vote and wear slacks!

While I’ve attributed recent cranial temperature spikes to allergies and Texas’ perennial schizophrenic weather (which might explain some Texans to the rest of the civilized world), I don’t feel I’m experiencing hot flashes.  I prefer to call them “hormonal readjustments”.  They’re similar to gray hairs; they’re not gray hairs, people!  They’re stress highlights!

Shortly after I turned 40 in 2003 – in the days more commonly known as BH (Before HDTV) or BF (Before Facebook) – I came down with the flu for the first time in my entire life to date.

“What’s this shit about life beginning at 40?” I joked with my then-supervisor at work.

A round of Tamiflu, coupled with orange juice, rum and refraining from frequent masturbation helped over that uncomfortable, microbial slump.  But I still had the gnawing sensation my body had finally decided to divorce itself from my soul and try to lead a life of its own.  I think a number of people experience that same feeling as their odometer reaches the number 40.  We never ask for that kind of life change; the shit just slaps us upside the head!

Now, however, at age 56, I’m starting to experience more unexpected physiological changes in my body, as well as cerebral alterations that occur upon realizing life moves more easily when sound and sober.  Unexpected, yes, but even more pleasurable.  It’s not the same kind of pleasure one might have seeing their best friend and one-time spouse or life partner drive off the cliff in their new vehicle.  I mean, what a way to get a new car!  Full-coverage insurance be damned!

For me, it’s my body finally getting adjusted to NOT holding in all the rage and angst I have when people piss me off – the madness otherwise known as “Life”.

Remember, we don’t develop gray hairs!  Now, my own indigo locks haven’t sported many – yet!  But metaphorically, I’m covered!  Still – no gray hairs, dear readers!  They’re stress highlights!  Thus, it’s good to let out as much stress as you can.  Just watch out for flu varmints and two-timing best friends!

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Filed under Wolf Tales

The Chief at 56

The Chief in a moment of self-adulation after a run this past summer – and to prove to real and cyber friends I can actually move faster than a fat man walking through a cactus field. Naked. Blindfolded.

As of 1:15 a.m. Central Standard Time U.S. this past Tuesday, November 5, the Chief turned 56.  It’s not necessarily as big a deal as, say, turning 55.  And I remember years ago thinking that, once somebody reaches the half century mark on life’s odometer, ensuing birthdays don’t really matter.  But I’ve learned every birthday matters.  It’s another year forward and another chance to improve oneself.  I feel I’m doing that with my writing, as well as more practical moves, such as joining a new gym.

This year’s birthday was rougher than expected.  I got sick – again.  Allergies that usually plague me with the change of seasons (the summer to autumn transition is generally the worst) hit me harder this time around; thus prompting a visit to my doctor for a trio of anti-microbial, germ-phobic medications.  My eyes showed the wrath of the usual culprits: ragweed and mountain cedar.  I confirmed my sensitivity to them some 15 years ago with an appointment to an allergy specialist.  Visits to the refrigerator, kitchen cabinets and local stores had long proven ineffective.  Ragweed and mountain cedar ranked at the top of my allergy reaction list, along with other suspected villains – oak and cat dander.  I’m also allergic to stupid people, but aside from working outside the home and driving, there’s no definite test for that.

But my eyes looked as if I’d been ambushed by a swarm of killer bees or came out on the wrong end of a boxing match.  Still, the drug cocktail – which did include the ubiquitous screwdriver – eased my angst.  And then, the little microbial fuckers resurfaced, like dental appointments and property taxes.  They assaulted me with their ecological mainstays: watery eyes, congestion, coughing and the tendency not to use Spellcheck.  Misery!  Misery, I tell you, dear readers!  Joining that gym last month was a much-needed lifestyle change.  Since the late 1980s, I’ve pretty much been a gym rat.  I even wrote about it six years ago.  However, when I signed up to this new place, it had been roughly eleven months since I’d been to a gym to lift weights.  Note to the wise and health-conscious: do NOT take nearly a year off from lifting weights and expect to be back to normal in a single session.  But, at that last gym a year ago around this time, one of the senior staff apparently had an issue with my attire.  I wore an old sweat jacket – one I only wear to the gym.  Admittedly, I’ve had it since high school.  Some 35+ years ago.  Okay, it’s a man thing!  You wouldn’t understand, unless you bear that rare Y chromosome!  The zipper is twisted, and it’s shrunk.  I often keep it unzipped during workouts.  No one had ever had a problem with that.  Until November 2018.

The man – either a lost Viking or an intense Grateful Dead fan – literally got up in my face and ordered me to “zip it up.”  He then walked away.  And so did I.  I re-racked a curl bar and left; canceling the membership once I got home.

This new gym has no such qualms about ratty, decades-old sweat jackets.  It doesn’t cater to GQ cover models or suburban soccer moms – no offense to suburban soccer moms!  It’s an old-school gym – where men can go shirtless, women can wear sports bras, and dogs run around the front office.  Literally, the owners have 2 massive and very friendly canines practically greeting people when they enter.  As a certified Wolfman and canid aficionado, I love the idea of dogs almost anywhere! 

I was determined to visit the gym on my birthday, as I’ve done with just about every birthday for as long as I can remember.  I even did so last year – before the Sweat Jacket Incident.  But I just couldn’t make it this past Tuesday.  Again, those allergies.  Or maybe the flu.  Or I’m being punished for not completing my second novel by now, as promised.  Perhaps internalizing all those angry sentiments from work and driving had finally caught up to me.  But then again, I never was too keen on the idea of being a serial killer.  That doesn’t look good on your Linked In profile.

But other distractions arose, particularly with this aging house.  Bathroom and kitchen sinks, roofs, foundations and various and sundry attributes boast large repair price tags.  I relish the thought of living in the house where I grew up.  I don’t have to fight for parking space, deal with noisy upstairs neighbors and getting rent paid on time.  I have the joy of dealing with aging bathroom and kitchen sinks, roofs and foundations.  Aaah – suburban life!

So this birthday wasn’t the best.  But I made it to another year!  I’m always thankful for that.  The alternative is not pleasant.

The other day a friend posted a drawing on Facebook of someone hugging what looked like Jesus Christ with the verbiage: “The best part of going to Heaven.”  I thought, if there is such a place, the first person I’d want to see is my father, who passed away 3 years ago and who I think of and pray to every day and night.  Nearly 5 months later, when my dog died, I fell into a mortal depression.  When I marked my 53rd birthday that year, I honestly felt I wasn’t going to make it much longer.  I was ready to give up.  I still truly believe my father returned to get my dog; in part, because he absolutely loved that pint-sized, four-legged monstrosity, but also because he simply wanted the dog to be with him.  I could understand my 83-year-old father’s demise; he had been sick off and on for years with gastrointestinal problems.  His body could no longer take the punishment.  But then, he came back to take the dog?!  Oh well…such mysteries are not for this world to understand.

Yet, as morose as I felt at the end of that year, I realized I had so much I wanted to do.  I still hadn’t published my first novel and I have other stories I want to write.  I realized I couldn’t give up.  It certainly wouldn’t be fair to the people who care about me, but it wouldn’t even be fair to me.  I’ll die, and the sun will still rise in the east the next morning.  Some people I’ve known actually think it won’t, if they die!

So, here I am at the ripe slightly-passed-middle-age of 56!  I’m still writing and still fighting!  Now, I just need to find a new way to assassinate these allergens and get back into the gym.


Filed under Essays

Epochs of Our Lives

I saw news of that new “Aging App” that can show what you’ll look like in 20 years. So I thought, what the hell, and tried it out. It came back with this shit:

Fucking technology!



Filed under Wolf Tales

Middle Life Past

Can you at least get my surname right?!

Can you at least get my surname right?!

I knew when I turned 50 last November that I automatically qualified for membership in the AARP. But, it wasn’t until last week when I received a “Senior Information Update” mailer from some previously-unknown insurance firm that I realized I’m actually more than half past my life expectancy. The offer isn’t just for insurance. It’s for death insurance! I looked at the little rectangular piece of paper and responded the only way someone who doesn’t plan to die anytime soon would: “What the fuck?!”

As a teenager, I was a pretty good kid in that I respected my parents and other adults. But, I was a normal kid in that I often joked with my parents about their age. Then, one Christmas Eve at my grandmother’s house, I was talking with a second-cousin who was about 9 or 10. He was telling me about his new collection of video games. He then looked at me and said frankly, “Oh, I guess they didn’t have those in your day.”

No, they didn’t, I muttered quietly. And, go to hell, you little fucker!

I still thought it was funny and told both my mother and my second-cousin’s paternal grandmother (my father’s sister-in-law). My mother reacted as you might expect: “Ah-hah! Now, you know how age jokes feel!”

Okay, but kids say the strangest things. I looked at the mailer again and contemplated so many things about my life. Why did I end up an only child? Why wasn’t I born with purple eyes? Why did I develop allergies to ragweed, instead of alcohol? You know – the average, every day questions that only a Spanish / Mexican Indian / German bi-guy who likes dogs more than people and writes freaky stories about humanity’s irrelevance would ask.

But, death insurance? I haven’t even had health insurance since I got laid off from the engineering firm in October 2010! Now, I’m supposed to start planning for my death. Well, I suppose everyone should. The issue takes on slightly more significance once you reach age 40.

The father of one of my best friends died somewhat unexpectedly 10 years ago. He’d been sick for weeks, and my friend, James*, finally convinced him to make a doctor’s appointment. His father (like my father) was from that generation of macho men who didn’t go to the doctor until some body part was falling off. On the day his father was scheduled to visit the doctor, the old man decided not to go. James had taken off from work to drive him over there – and, at the last minute, his father said to hell with it. Whereupon he stepped into the front room – and collapsed. By the time paramedics got him to the hospital, he was dead. I later told James that his father probably sensed he was going to die anyway. Why waste a morning at the doctor’s office when you can drop dead in the comfort of your own home?

Neither of James’ parents had made funeral arrangements. He’d had a rough time just convincing them to compose wills. Again, they were from that generation where people just didn’t do that. But, amidst the grief of seeing their father convulsing on the floor and carried away in an ambulance, James and his family had to cobble together funeral arrangements within a matter of days. Under such circumstances, Dallas County doesn’t give families much time for planning and coordinating burials. They need that freezer space in the morgue for all the drug overdose and gunshot victims. After his father’s funeral, James managed to convince his mother to make her own funeral arrangements.

My parents took care of theirs years ago. They have their plots established at a local cemetery. But, me? I only have a will that gives everything to them, or – if they’re deceased – to be sold off with the proceeds going to the Texas SPCA. As I said, I like dogs more than people. If I could, I’d like to be buried in my white dinner jacket and entombed in my truck. But, I think I’d also like to be cremated and have my ashes embedded into a new kind of electronic device I’ll call the “I-Bod.” The “I-Bod” will be a mini-computer / Kindle-type device to be sold only to smart people who like to read and conduct actual academic-style research to help them learn and understand their world better. That means it’ll be a limited edition piece.

Here’s another thing people do more frequently when they get to that “Certain Age:” they read the obituaries. I’ve taken to glancing at them daily. A decade ago I just skipped that section, never giving it another thought. I’d only learn of someone’s death through a relative or a friend. But, that’s the way it is. For most people, our behavior changes as we age. I’ve grown more aggressive and less shy. In other words, I’ve turned into a mean old bastard! But, I still love dogs.

*Name changed.


Filed under Essays

And Me?


In September of 2012, I was at my parents’ house when my father was getting ready to go have his car inspected, and my mother decided she needed to take out the trash.  I had come in following an earlier and somewhat stressful job interview.  I had brought my dog with me to the house – not the interview.  I suddenly thought that I needed to check on my mother.  I don’t know why; it just suddenly occurred to me.  Good thing, though.  As I entered the garage, my mother was returning from the recycle bin, when one of her slippers got caught on the cracked driveway.  She slammed hard onto the concrete and immediately started screaming.  I rushed to pick her up; her left arm looked broken.  With my help, she hobbled back into the house.

My father came down the hallway, horrified.  “What the hell happened?” he bellowed.  He already has a loud voice, so with any extra effort, he could wake the dead.

I quickly explained the situation, which only made him mad.

It wasn’t the first time my mother had tripped while wearing those slippers.  They were cheap, rubber footwear with a two-inch heel; what I called high-heeled slippers.  A few months earlier I was again at their house with my dog, when he indicated he needed to visit the back yard.  My father decided to take him out; my mother decided to join them.  She leapt up from the couch and tripped on those same slippers; slamming hard onto the tile floor.  In fact, she came out of them.  They literally seemed to get stuck to the floor.  She ended up with a severe bruise up the right side of her leg.  A visit to their orthopedic doctor the following week confirmed nothing was broken, or even fractured.

When she fell in the driveway, my father hurriedly called that same orthopedic doctor.  He told them to come in immediately.  I drove them to his office; the receptionist could sense my frustration, as I signed them into the log book.

“Be patient, hon,” she drawled.

My mother’s arm wasn’t broken, but her shoulder was dislocated.  The doctor and two of his assistants tried to pop it back into place, as she lay on the X-ray table, but the muscles and ligaments around it had swollen too much.  They had to admit her to the neighboring hospital and put her to sleep.  It turned out to be an all-day affair.  We left the hospital around 7 P.M.

My father tossed that pair of slippers – and another similar pair my mother had in their closet – into the trash.  Since they were made of rubber, I switched them over to the recycle bin.  I hoped they could be reincarnated as the wheels of a “Hoveround” and therefore, serve a greater purpose.

She’s not the only one who’s tripped in and around the house.  My father, an avid gardener, has fallen several times outside with no one but himself to get back up.  One afternoon he fell in the master bathroom and couldn’t get back up.  He started hollering for help.  My mother had fallen asleep on the couch and couldn’t hear him.  I had lain down in my old bedroom and – with the door closed – couldn’t hear him either.  My dog’s whining woke me up.

It’s a good thing I was there to help my parents in both those predicaments.  Many senior citizens live alone and often find themselves in compromising situations.  Several years ago I had a friend who volunteered for “Meals on Wheels.”  One afternoon he arrived at the home of a client, an elderly woman who lived alone.  Two of her neighbors were at the front door; frantic because she wasn’t responding to their knocks.  My friend wandered towards the back where he climbed the tall wooden fence – and saw the woman lying on the ground, just outside the back door.  She had stepped out the previous evening and tripped.  Unable to get up by herself, she simply remained on the ground; knowing her “Meals on Wheels” visitor would be there the next day.

As I rapidly approach 50, I’m now seeing all these incidents in a new light.  Who’s going to take care of me when I get old – if I should be that lucky?  I’m an only child.  I’ve never been married and don’t have any kids.  I’m close with a couple of cousins on my father’s side, but they have their own lives.  I don’t know if I’ll end up in this house where I grew up, or if I’ll have a home of my own.  But, if I should have the good grace of living to an old age, who could I depend on for support?  I can see dogs in my future though.  They make great companions, yet unless they can be trained to dial 911, or administer first aid, that’s about the extent of their practicality.  Still, I’d almost rather have a dog than a spouse or a partner.  I’ve never been good at romantic relationships.

It’s a serious issue facing us, as life expectancy in the U.S. and other developed nations reaches ever-increasing highs.  The current (and relentless) American obesity epidemic may put a dent in the welfare of my fellow citizens.  However, medical and scientific advances have allowed the populations of developed nations to experience greater rates of longevity, which is a good thing, of course.  People should be able to live as long as they possibly can.  But, those longer life expectancies also present some unique challenges; a fair trade-off, I presume.  It goes beyond just tolerating old folks’ stories of ‘way back when.’  Older people generally require specialized medications and treatments.  Arthritis, hearing and vision loss and immobility are among many such concerns for senior citizens.  There’s a growing industry within the medical community that targets elder care.  It’s virtually uncharted territory.

My paternal grandmother lived to age 97.  But, in the years between the death of my grandfather in 1969 and one traumatic night in the spring of 1992, she’d spent mostly alone.  She got up in the pre-dawn hours, needing to go to the bathroom, when her foot became entangled in the bedding.  She stumbled forward into the baseboard of her antique bed and fell to the floor – her right elbow cut and broken.  Despite the pain and bleeding in the pitch-black darkness, she managed to pull herself back around to the nightstand where she found the telephone cord; she yanked the phone down and called one of my aunts.  My aunt called one of her sisters, before rushing to my grandmother’s house with her husband.  Someone called the paramedics.  As my aunts and uncles stood outside, they simultaneously realized one terrifying fact: none of them had a key to the house.  One of the paramedics announced he was going to break a window, when one of my uncles remembered he had a glass-cutter in his car.  They used that to gain access to the house.  At the hospital, everyone was startled to learn something more critical than not having a key: my grandmother’s body was riddled with bumps, bruises and cuts.  She conceded that she’d fallen several times in the house and had always managed to get back up.  This time was worst, though, because of the elbow break.  The emergency room doctor looked askew at my relatives.  Elder abuse had become a hot topic in the medical community by the early 1990s, and our family became concerned that someone would look at those bumps and bruises on my grandmother and think the worst.  But, no one did.

Ultimately, my father and his six siblings decided that someone needed to be with her at all times.  My grandmother wasn’t too keen on the idea, though.  She relished her independence and privacy and didn’t want someone monitoring her every move.  But, her children ruled against her.  She was fortunate – and blessed.

A close friend of mine is caring for his elderly mother and an elderly aunt.  His aunt is in her early 90s, and his mother is fast approaching that milestone.  He works full-time, so it’s a challenge to tend to the needs of both women.  On a few occasions, he once confided to me, he literally wanted to pack up and leave Dallas for somewhere else; anywhere!  Just as long as he had no one to worry about except himself.  Alas, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.  He’s not so cold-hearted.  His older brother died a few years ago, and his younger sister has a daughter who just turned one.  His sister also has a 20-something son from a long-ago relationship who lives in the same house as his uncle, grandmother and grand-aunt.  He’s a very responsible young man who finished a hitch in the U.S. Marines three years ago and just earned an associate’s degree from a community college.  But, he also works and, at his age, I don’t think he envisions a lifetime of caring for old folks.  One day, however, he and his half-sister may face the concerns of elder care with their mother.

It’s difficult to watch my parents age.  “It’s hell getting old,” they inform me periodically.  Not until a few years ago, about the time I turned 45, did I really sit down with nothing but my most honest thoughts and contemplate life as a senior citizen.  Aside from previous bouts with alcohol addiction, I’ve tried to take care of myself both physically and mentally.  I’ve suffered from severe depression and anxiety in the past; adverse effects, I now realize, of not being able to kill people who pissed me off and get away with it.  Otherwise, I’m pretty healthy.  People who don’t know me occasionally tell me I look 30-something.  That’s a good thing.  But, surficial appearances can’t make up for a strong inner core.

In 2043, for example, I’ll be 80 – the same age as my parents are now.  Will I still have relatively good vision and the mental acuity needed to drive a vehicle?  More and more older Americans are still driving, even as their reflexes slow.  Some states are approaching the delicate issue of how to deal with the growing number of senior citizen drivers; another effect of longer life expectancies.  Will I learn from my parents’ mistakes and watch where I’m walking?  Falls are the leading cause of injury to the elderly.  It was bad enough that my mother would wear those damn rubber slippers with a two-inch base, but she also had the habit of dragging her feet.  I can understand why.  Joints become stiff with age, as cartilage behind the knees wears thin.

It would be nice for me, at age 70 or 80, to sit around the house and relish the fruits of a successful writing career.  But, at some point, I’d have to do laundry, or go to the grocery store.  If I have dogs – which I honestly intend to have – I must take them to the vet periodically.  It is possible that, in 30 years, grocery shopping will be done strictly online with customers sitting at their computers using web cameras to analyze fruits, meats and vegetables.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the U.S. Postal Service – now fighting valiantly to stay alive and relevant – will be a memory in 30 years; akin to my paternal grandfather’s early 20th century carpenter tools.  But, could there also be a vet who makes house calls?

Twenty years ago, when a good friend of mine died of AIDS, I felt lucky to reach my 30th birthday less than two months later.  Before I knew it, though, the turn of the century came – and went – a rare milestone for most humans now.  I turned 40 just weeks before I marked my first anniversary with an engineering firm – and then came down with the flu for the first time in my entire life.  Now, the first decade of the 21st century is old news.  Yes, technology changes, but so do people.

I’m not a braggart.  I don’t live for the moment, or for mounds of attention.  I’m an introvert who prefers quiet spaces most of the time; a hermit, perhaps, but one who cherishes books more than booze and dogs more than people.  If we’re fortunate, we get to live to see 70, 80, 90 and so on.  But, for me personally, what does that type of future hold?

I don’t cry out, ‘What about me?’  I’ve moved beyond wishing for the adulation of others.  But, seriously contemplating my later years, I really do have to ask, ‘What’s going to happen to me when I get old?’


Filed under Essays

Aging Well


“It’s hell getting old!”

I’ve heard that a lot in recent years from both my parents.  I’ve watched them closely, as they’ve aged.  My father used authentic railroad ties to make borders for flower beds; just months after we moved into this suburban Dallas home in December of 1972.  Now, he has trouble putting on his socks.  My mother could remember the birth dates and phone numbers of everyone on both sides of my family.  Now, she often forgets what she did just five minutes ago.

As I fast approach 50, unmarried and childless, I wonder more and more what will become of me in 30 years – if I’m so fortunate.  “I think I’m going to die in this house,” I told one of my closest friends a few years ago, “alone.”

“What’s wrong with that?” he replied.

“Nothing!”  But, he apparently didn’t hear the “alone” part.

I’m a loner by nature.  I always have been.  Unlike my parents, I’ve always had trouble making friends.  They couldn’t understand.  It was simply beyond their comprehension why I didn’t have friends (especially female friends) calling me all the time during my teen years.

We writers are generally solitary creatures.  It’s how our minds are able to create such vivid settings and outlandish characterizations.  Having grown up so shy and timid, I found refuge in books and my own writings.  I’m not at all shy or timid now.  Years of being bullied and disrespected for being too nice and polite beat that out of me.  But, I am definitely still a loner.  I prefer the company of my dog to that of any person.  I’m certain I’ll continue to bringing dogs into my life.  I don’t fear death.  My only concern is that a canine will become trapped here in the house with me.  I hate people who abuse animals.  Thus, it would be a tragic irony if I collapse alone in this house, and my four-legged companion suffers a miserable demise because of it.

Life expectancy in the U.S. now stands at nearly 80.  It would probably be closer to 90 if obesity wasn’t such a pandemic.  It’s obviously a good thing that people are living longer.  Yes, it’s better to die at 90 than at 19.  But, what good is it to live so long and end up struggling just to get to the bathroom?

As with anything, though, quality of life is more important than quantity.  My idea of a good life is to be well-read and emotionally stable.  I’ve finally learned not to worry what other people think of me.  Their rules no longer apply to me.  I can write well into the pre-dawn hours; play with my dog; listen to my favorite music; have a mixed drink or a glass of wine – and not feel the need to have another person beside me.  I’ve had only a handful of relationships – all of which ended unhappily.  I supposed it’s because I’m too independent.  Relationships take a lot of time and effort.  And, if one cuts into my writing time, or efforts to go to the gym, then a problem arises.  Thus, my prediction I will die alone in this house.

I will have company in that regard, albeit vicariously.  The Administration on Aging, a division of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, found that, as of 2010, there were about 40 million people age 65 and over living alone.  That number could increase to 55 million by the end of this decade.  In 1950, only about 10% of Americans age 65 or older lived alone.  Of course, life expectancy at the time stood at just about 65.  But, the rates of solitary seniors have also been increasing sharply since the 1990s because of the large number of “Baby Boomers” entering their golden years.

People look at you strangely when you begin talking about aging and death.  But, I’ve always been the type to think as far ahead as possible.  Often, I haven’t planned too well in advance, but it’s always the thought that counts.  My parents feel they are fortunate to have me around; even though it’s stressful trying to care for them, while working to get my freelance writing career out of the airport hangar.  (It’s inching closer to the tarmac every day, but it’s not quite there yet.)  And, I’m back on that same quandary: who’s going to take care of me when I’m old?  A dog makes a great companion.  But, while they may warn you that a stranger is approaching the house, they can’t run to the grocery store – not in the real world.  My father is 80 and still drives, even with one eye and a prosthetic knee.  I dread the day I have to confiscate the car keys.  That would be a proverbial death knell for him.  But, at least I’m here for him.

I’ll just deal with that when it comes time.  I’m trying to stay as healthy as possible and genuinely hope to live a long time.  But, on the day I drop dead, I wish for 2 things: I’m freshly showered and there are no dogs left to wander about the house, moaning in agony.  Yes, it’s hell getting old.  But, it’s hell not to live a full life.  I’ll take the old part, along with the full life.


Filed under Essays