“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.
“If there is any immortality to be had among us human beings, it is certainly only in the love that we leave behind. Fathers like mine don’t ever die.”
In case you hadn’t realized it, Dear Readers, Santa Claus and Halloween clowns aren’t the only holiday figures that can boast unnerving images. Easter bunnies hold a considerable share of macabre visages. After all, what mammal besides a platypus do you know lays eggs? Of course, the platypus is trying to procreate. The Easter bunny seems to have more nefarious intentions – they hide their eggs and convince innocent little kids to look for them. Who does that?!
And, if you aren’t sufficiently alarmed by these photos, here’s Liam Neeson adding to the trauma:
It’s been nearly two years since the U.S. Supreme Court outlawed abortion and left it up to individual states to decide whether or not women should be able to decide what to do with their bodies. The Dobbs decision sent proverbial shock waves throughout the American conscience. For the first time in modern judicial history, a fundamental right was snatched away by a band of elitists who – like most extremists – feel they know what’s best for everyone else.
Now another abortion-related issue has come before the Court: whether mifepristone is legal or not. Basically this medication induces abortion without an individual having to visit a clinic. Recently the U.S. Food and Drug Administration expanded approval of the drug. That incited the ire of Alliance for Hippocratic Medicine, a conservative anti-abortion group that forced the matter onto the plate of the High Court. If the Dobbs decision is any precedent, things don’t look good for mifepristone.
I might have one solution to the overall problem of unwanted pregnancies: tax-free condoms. Even before I entered my teens, my father put the fear of the Almighty into my brain – never trust a girl when she says she’s on birth control. Of course, women should never trust a man when he says she can quit her job because he’ll make her his queen, but that’s a different dilemma.
To many men wearing condoms is comparative to showering while wearing a raincoat. (Points to anyone who has actually heard that firsthand.) But, as we saw with the AIDS epidemic, condoms are a safeguard. Personally I’m tired of hearing men say that birth control is a woman’s responsibility. A real man takes charge of his own birth control.
Unexpected pregnancies present more than a few challenges to an individual female. Children who come into the world unplanned and unwanted often end up being unloved; thus, they often become society’s problem. Two decades ago economists Steve Levitt and John Donohue hypothesized that a reduction in crime in the 1990s was one effect of the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision that legalized abortion nationwide. A strong economy and a greater presence of law enforcement, especially in major metropolitan areas, were also counted as dominating factors. But it was the abortion connection that prompted the most controversy – and greatest outrage. Liberals opined that abortion provided women with greater autonomy over their own health care, while conservatives pointed to a reversal of liberal social policies beginning in the 1980s as the primary reason for a reduction in criminal behavior. Either of these theories bears some truth.
Another interesting result of the Dobbs decision is the sudden rise in vasectomies here in the U.S. Perhaps some men are finally getting the hint that they also have reproductive choices. Institutes from the Cleveland Clinic to Planned Parenthood are noting an increase in vasectomies. It’s both logical and practical.
But I still think eliminating taxes on condoms will provoke younger and/or single men to buy and use them. As of now, I don’t know of any state that maintains this practice, but I still feel it would be worth the trouble. States will garner tax revenue on a slew of other products anyway. I’m fully aware condoms are not a panacea to solve unwanted pregnancies; no form of birth control outside of abstinence is. But, just as with the foolishness of “Just Say No”, abstinence only blanket ideology isn’t reasonable either. Children cost money – as any parent can tell us. They should be a blessing, not a burden.
Leo – in typical feline fashion – trying to remain calm, while adapting to his new surroundings.
A couple of months ago I made a major decision. I decided to move my Uncle Wes* and his cat, Leo, in with me. Wes is my mother’s younger brother. He served in the U.S. Army in the 1960s and has been married only once; no children. A proverbial wild man, he’s led a rough life and is now paying the price for it. Bringing him here was no lightweight decision for me. No one else has lived here with me since my mother died in June of 2020. And Leo has the unique distinction of being the very first feline to step foot into this house. Outside of the occasional stray cat venturing into the back yard, no cat has ever been in here. Twenty years ago I underwent a formal allergy test and learned – as I’d long suspected – that I’m allergic to ragweed, mountain cedar and cat dander – among other things. Other things include stupid people, but that’s a different essay.
Despite not being a people person, I guess it’s my nature to want to help people who sometimes can’t fend for or take care of themselves. As cynical as I’ve become in my seven decades on Earth, a smattering of humanity still lurks deep within my soul. Besides, I prefer to care for those closest to me. I couldn’t stand the thought of Wes spending his remaining years in a state of uncertainty. Like anyone who’s lived into adulthood, he’s made his share of mistakes.
Wes had been living in a dumpy, one-bedroom, one-bath apartment with no washer and dryer in a neighboring Dallas suburb. Fortunately the laundry facility stood next door, but in an increasingly cashless society, he was frequently searching for quarters. He had three cats at one point, but Leo is the only surviving one left. On at least two occasions in the past year he fell in his apartment and couldn’t get back up.
Shortly after my mother died in June of 2020, a close friend told me my parents probably forgave me for never getting married and having children of my own; considering how I cared for them in their final years. Perhaps because I’ve often wondered how – being an only child – I would have handled their health problems if I’d had a spouse and kids. My paternal grandmother was fortunate; with seven adult children in her senior years, someone could always look out for her.
Thus, I have to think of what might happen to me if I get to be that age. My grandmother was 97 when she died, and both my parents lived into their 80s. Wes just turned 84.
I’m lucky if I hear from one of my first cousins and I only know a few of my neighbors. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories of elderly and/or disabled people dyeing alone in their homes and lay undiscovered for weeks or even months.
In early 1991 I recall reading one chilling report from a town in Massachusetts – police had discovered the remains of an elderly woman in her home. The most shocking fact of the case to me was that officials believe she died in July of 1989 because that’s when her banking transactions ceased. Another startling attribute was that she had two adult children. Her son admitted, however, that they’d been estranged from their mother for years. Neighbors also emphasized what a recluse the woman was. But, I asked myself, how could someone lie dead in their home for nearly two years before being found?
I’m a recluse; always have been and always will be an introvert. I used to loathe that, but now I cherish it. It’s just who I am. The aforementioned friend had also noted years earlier that he feared I was becoming a recluse because I rarely left the house. My mother was still alive at the time, and I feared leaving her alone because her mind was already sinking into dementia.
Whatever happens in the future, I’m glad I could get Wes to move in here. We get along great, and it’s actually nice having someone else in the house. It’s also nice having an animal in the house. I just have to keep Leo off my bed!
This time of year – when everyone is supposed to express love for their fellow humans and hope for a more peaceful world – is also when the strangest elements of humanity seem to arise. Happy freaky holidays!
The crucifix pictured above is something I carry with me whenever I leave the house. Although I was raised Roman Catholic, I am not devoutly religious and don’t subscribe to any religion. I’m more spiritual, if anything. But the crucifix is something that connects me to my father who died seven years ago. He used to carry it around in his car. After he passed, I started toting it around with me. Everywhere! Whenever I leave the house – no matter where I go – it’s in my pocket.
Once, a couple of years ago, I had the sudden urge for a late-night cheeseburger, so I hopped into my truck and scampered to a nearby burger joint. (I normally don’t eat fast food, but this was a weak moment for me.) After I returned home, I began emptying my pockets – and was startled to realize I didn’t have the crucifix with me. I hurried back out to the truck and feverishly searched as much of it as I could; working up a minor sweat and panicking. I was genuinely upset and almost horrified. How could I lose something so important to me? And, more importantly, where could it be?
I rushed back into the house, breathing heavily and completely frantic. I didn’t know where to look next. But then I returned to my bedroom and pulled open the dresser drawer where I keep my keys and other such items – including the crucifix. And there it was – sitting quietly atop a handkerchief. I hadn’t taken it with me when I left to get the food. The sense of relief was immense – and almost laughable.
I got that upset over an old crucifix? Well…yes!
I don’t know where my father got it or when. I don’t even know at what point he placed it into the side panel of his 2002 Chevy Malibu. But it’s obviously old. My parents gathered a large collection of crucifixes over the years, which I still have.
As I declared, it’s simply something that connects me to my father. On this Father’s Day weekend, it’s even more important.
I’m curious to know if any of you have similar items; something that bears such personal significance to you – and only you – that it’s become an integral part of your life. Please share.
Chief Writing Wolf 