Where Do I Go to Renounce my Senior Citizenship? Part 2 of 2

Last week, I wrote about the humiliating fall I took on some ice and how unimpressed I feel with senior citizenship so far. As my Granny used to say, “Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”

The virus I thought I’d beaten before my fall swept in with a whole new vengeance, knocking me out for weeks.

My errands remained unrun. I stayed home from church, small group, and everything else. I rescheduled a chiropractor appointment—which might have been helpful after my fall—only to cancel again a week later when I was still barking like a seal. Thankfully, I had enough pre-written columns stockpiled to see my readers through, as long as I remembered to email them on time. No actual writing got done, only lots of coughing, sleeping, reading, watching of British period dramas on TV, and staring out the window waiting for the angel of death.

This is not me and I do not look this good when I'm sick.

I ventured out to the clinic with Hubby as my chauffeur, remembering with chagrin that when he’d had the same illness, he’d driven himself to the doctor. He took care of my errands. He even picked up my prescription for me—antibiotics and an inhaler. A week later, the drugs were gone and the symptoms still raged.

Our small group delivered a care package of soup, ham, muffins, cookies, cinnamon buns, and cheesecake—which almost made the ordeal worthwhile. Hubby was introduced to grocery shopping, and I was introduced to store-bought freezer meals and salad kits (which could all too easily become habit-forming).

Eventually, I discovered that by tackling one task per day, like cleaning a bathroom or throwing in some laundry, we could survive. But it was all I could manage. I’d crawl into bed and force myself to mentally count my blessings. Cozy bed. Warm blankets. My house. Cough syrup. Hot drinks. Tissues. Can you imagine going through a cold or flu with only fabric handkerchiefs and then having to launder them all with only a scrub board and clothesline? Yes, one can always find plenty for which to be grateful.

I know I’m not alone, and it’s not merely my age. Chances are, you’ve been plagued with a similar bug and its lingering symptoms. The difference is, I have a blog and get to whine about it in a public space. I hope you’ll consider this a rant on your behalf as well.

As I write this, I am finally seeing some light at the end of the viral tunnel which has kept my brain in a virtual fog longer than I’ve ever experienced. Will this worsen my already troubled lungs? I don’t know. Will my energy levels be even further depleted than before? I don’t know that, either. Is this simply what senior citizenship will look like for me? Heaven help me.

Which leads to my point. Though my daily posting of scripture memes on social media had come to an abrupt halt, two weeks into my illness a Facebook memory popped up where I’d shared a verse from Psalm 54 years before. “Surely God is my help. The Lord is the one who sustains me.”

Sometimes that’s all you really need to know.

Where Do I Go to Renounce my Senior Citizenship? Part 1 of 2

Six weeks in, and I can’t say I’m too impressed with being 65 so far. Due to Hubby being too sick to go out on my birthday, the plans we’d made to celebrate with an overnight date in Winnipeg were first downgraded to dinner and a movie. When his virus refused to yield, we downgraded yet again, settling for watching TV and ordering home delivery from a local restaurant.

I tried not to feel ripped off. After all, a certain amount of maturity should come with being a senior citizen. We’d simply postpone our plans.

Before Hubby fully recovered, his virus began threatening me too. I kept it at arm’s length with regular doses of good old oregano oil and stayed cooped up for several days. Believing myself on the mend, and with business at the bank and post office, I decided a walk might do me good. Oblivious to the ice storm that had recently pummeled us, I bundled up, slung my purse over my shoulder, and locked the house door. I took maybe three steps down our crushed rock driveway and it rushed up to meet me, face to face. Ow. 

It’s been said that if you want to know whether others see you as old, try falling. If they laugh, you’re considered young. If they hurry to help, asking if you’re okay, they see you as elderly. I still don’t know because no one was around to witness it.

My first thought was, “Can I get up before someone drives by and sees me?”

My second thought was, “Can I get up before falling again?”

My third thought was, “Can I get up?”

I eventually succeeded, which surely validated my relative youthfulness. I managed the three steps to the door and hurried inside where I could assess the damage. Dirty mittens and jeans. Two scraped knees, two scuffed hands, one sore hip and shoulder. A bruised ego. The rest would no doubt show up the next day. My list of “at leasts” kicked in.

At least I’m athletic enough to fall fast.

At least it didn’t happen at the top of the Tupper Street bridge.

At least that loud crack I heard was only my hip and not my expensive new cellphone. (Just kidding, settle down. Nothing cracked.)

The fall reminded me of the riddle I’d asked my grandsons recently.

Question: “What did the horse say when he fell down?”

Answer: “I’ve fallen and I can’t giddy-up!”

Between the humiliation of the fall and the lingering virus symptoms, I decided my giddy-up was gone for the day. A nice bowl of soup, a cup of tea, and a nap with my heated bean bag were in order. The errands could wait.

Little did I know how long those errands would wait. The next day a whole new issue swept in, worthy of its own column which I’ll share next week. Maybe then someone will take pity and tell me where I can go to renounce my newly acquired senior citizenship.

Proverbs 24:16 says, “The godly may trip seven times, but they will get up again. But one disaster is enough to overthrow the wicked.”

Since I’ve not yet been overthrown, I won’t consider myself one of the wicked. If you take this proverb literally and count my fall on an escalator a few years ago, I figure I’ve got five more good falls in me.

Here’s hoping nothing cracks when I take them.

Older Than I've Ever Been

I’m turning 65 this week, which of course provides no end of reasons to reflect. Speaking of reflections, did you know the easiest way to look younger is to remove your glasses before looking in the mirror?

At 65, I must acknowledge that I’m no longer middle-aged. How can I be when I’m halfway to 130 and have no intention of living that long?

Lately, fatigue has forced me to say no to several things that I’d dearly love to do, proving that the world is no longer my oyster. Oh well. Never did care for oysters. Lots of positive things can be said about turning 65.

Here are seven.

1.  Old Age Security is the biggest one, of course. I’m looking forward to my first direct deposit, although an actual cheque that I could hold in my wrinkling hands might somehow provide more cause for celebration. I’ll probably splurge on something extravagant like groceries or electricity.

2.  We’re no longer getting calls from life insurance salespeople.

3.  Now we can officially enjoy the senior discounts at restaurants, theaters, and stores without wondering what age they consider “senior.” No question about it. We qualify.

4.  It’s now acceptable to pretend my hearing is going and ignore absolutely everybody. 

5.  I can start new hobbies, like decorating my yard with plastic flowers. Or saving bits of aluminum foil and dryer lint in case my kids want that someday.

6.  I can console myself knowing there are still a few things older than me. The pyramids come to mind.

7.  We can now go to antique shops and visit our old furniture.

Seriously, I’m grateful to have more days behind me than before me here on this planet. Maybe that’s because I agree with C.S. Lewis when he said, “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”

Last month I attended the funeral of our friend, Asta, age 93. Family members shared stories about how, with loved ones gathered around her bed expecting her to slip from a coma into eternity any minute, Asta began to pray aloud. For ten full minutes, she prayed for the people in the room. She prayed for healing for others. In her moment of greatest personal need, her heart and mind were focused on others. It occurred to me that such things don’t simply happen on our deathbed unless we have already made them a lifelong habit.

If I’m honest, my lifetime habits will have my deathbed prayers sounding more like, “Help me, help me, help me.”

I know only two things for sure. First, whether I have one day or thirty years left here, my deepest desire is to hear Jesus say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Second, this moment is really all I have. Yesterday’s over. I could be gone by tomorrow.

Those two realities lead to the only logical next question. What does “good and faithful” look like right now, right here, in this moment? It’s not always what we might think at first blush.

A great question to ask at any age.

“For through wisdom your days will be many, and years will be added to your life.” (Proverbs 9:11)

Me at 10 or 11 with one of my kitties.

Boiled Egg, Anyone?

It’s official. I can no longer be left unsupervised.

Normally, I blame my husband for everything. But he wasn’t around when this awful thing happened, which means it takes longer for me to figure out how it’s his fault.

I could blame it on the clothesline. It was laundry day, and I was carrying each load outside to dry while I did other things inside. Except I wasn’t actually outside when this awful thing happened.

I could blame it on the Jehovah’s Witnesses. They came to my door with an invitation to their latest event while this awful thing was happening. Except I didn’t actually answer the door.

While we're on religious groups, maybe I should blame it on Warren Jeffs, convicted felon and leader of the FLDS (Fundamental Church of Latter Day Saints). Because while this awful thing was happening, I sat at my desk, mesmerized by a documentary featuring some of the wives and children who escaped his polygamist cult telling their unbelievably heart-breaking stories.

I could blame the things that go bump all day long. If it weren’t for the air conditioner or the washing machine or the fridge or any one of several things in my house that frequently make strange noises, I’d have noticed the racket coming from my kitchen sooner.

I could blame my busy life. I’d had a lot going on that week. Much to distract my mind.

Or the smoke detector. Why didn’t it go off?

Or my blond hair. Except that comes from a bottle.

Or the stove.

Or the science of evaporation.

Or the bossa nova.

But whatever I do, I will not blame it on my age.

It’s true I completely forgot about the pot of eggs I’d put on to boil. It’s true I forgot to set a timer. When the cracking and popping grew loud enough to command my attention, I finally remembered the eggs. I paused the video about the FLDS and ran to my kitchen, expecting flames at worst and black smoke at least. The photo shows what I found.

Be glad I can’t share the smell.

I shut off the burner, carried the pot out to the deck, opened windows, and turned on fans. An hour later, everything was back to normal, except perhaps my pride. I’d scrubbed the pot, thrown out the burned eggs, and put on some fresh ones—remembering the timer.

I sincerely hope I’ve learned a valuable lesson. All for the low, low price of six eggs.

Ever since Adam blamed Eve and Eve blamed the snake, it’s been part of our human nature to assign fault elsewhere for our mistakes and misdeeds. I expect to remember this incident every time I boil an egg. If only I could remember to quit looking for someone or something else to point a finger at.

We hear the phrase “No shame, no blame” a lot these days—in counselors’ offices, on TV, and in self-help books. What would happen if, instead of blaming others or shaming myself, I chose to be grateful? For minimum damage. For stainless-steel cookware. For catching on before it got much worse. For the ease with which we can produce heat for cooking. For the means to purchase more eggs. For timers. And for lessons learned, even at my advanced age.

Woops. I said it.

(And if  you're too young to catch the Bossa Nova reference, here's a link to the original song for your enjoyment.)