More about growing old and navigating the world.
I am 75.
And tentative, slow on steps, unsteady on rocky ground. More so after a silly, spectacular sprawl in my living room last spring. The perfect example of senior magazines’ warnings: tripping on a rug.
I rise up from squishy chairs only if they have sturdy arms.
Child-height toilets are the death of me.
I hear the world with my right ear– and not my left, at all.
And require my right ear to keep me steady, balanced.
The ophthalmalogist and I hold macular degeneration at bay.
My gray hair’s gone white in these pandemic times.
But . . .
I stay busy and write pieces like this and keep my finances in order and remember a host of birthdays and how to order groceries. I can arrange Zoom meetings and chair them. Book travel and unsnarl some of my computer’s quirks. Now that they all talk, I can mind grandchildren for a bit. And cook for company. So far, I haven’t left my car keys in the freezer. Though I empathize with anyone who has.
Still, I welcome a clear-voiced speaker.
I treasure handrails and grab bars and gentle slopes.
I’m Marcella or Mrs. Walter.
Please not sweetie or hon (as a physician’s assistant regretted saying earlier this year).
I thrive on matter-of-fact thoughtfulness (don’t we all).
I can use an arm for steadiness sometimes, not always. I’ll ask.
Or you can offer.
But I’m not anyone’s dependent.
I don’t benefit from hovering or scolding or presuming or being corrected.
I’m self-conscious enough.
And very much my own person.
Of greatest importance: needing help sometimes doesn’t mean I’m helpless.
I’m responsible, as well, for accepting assistance with grace and dignity. With thanks, but not apology.
I look ahead beyond 75 and know that the intertwined graces of mutual respect become more important every passing year.
That the aides and nurses and doctors and friends and children in my future might benefit from every flicker of this rumination.
As will I. As will I. ©
