I got old. I don’t really remember when it happened because it happened so fast. One minute I was covered in spit- up and knee- deep in diapers. The next, well, it seems as if the former never even happened.
A year and a half ago I had a fall and landed in the hospital with a broken hip. That did not bother me so very much other than I felt stupid. As we waited in the lobby of the emergency room, my husband muttered that he was embarrassed to be seen in the ER with me and my potentially broken hip. I was only sixty four years old, not eighty four. This was far too early for this sort of thing to be happening. I had to admit that I agreed with him.
Three days later, I was back home, held together with what for all the world look like drywall screws and walking with a walker. Still did not bother me. All of the little children in my neighborhood were envious of my new “wheels” and the adults enquired, as tactfully as they could, about what had happened. “Just stupidity” was my reply.
Two weeks later my husband, who seldom makes pronouncements, announced that my fall had opened his eyes to the fact that we were getting older. I silently agreed that he was getting on in years. Because, he said, we were getting to “that age,” it was time for us to engage the services of an elder lawyer to put all of our affairs in order, set up trust funds for our children and have medical directives. That did seem like the responsible thing to do. He went on to say that he was going to retire when I went on Medicare, which would happen on my next birthday, and we were moving. Those two things really got my attention. In essence, he was cutting off my spending and by moving, I knew he meant to a retirement community. I felt my crows’ feet lengthen.
I dragged my feet as much as I possibly could and then realized he was going to buy a house with or without me and I’d better get with the program. We watched Youtube videos of retirement communities in Colorado, New Mexico, Oregon and California. None of those appealed to me as they took me far away from the one child who lived close by and moved me only a bit closer to the other child who could move at the drop of a hat, based on the dictates of his job.
In the end we chose a community closer to the one child who was already close by. I could still keep all my activities and friends. As long as I did not mind a much longer drive. Who in their right mind puts a retirement community out in the middle of nowhere?
My husband plunged himself into his various projects- retiring from his job of 33 years, helping me get on Medicare, and designing the house that we would have built. He planned and I packed, which was a real challenge as we had lived in our home for 33 years and had accumulated 33 years worth of stuff.
The new house would be smaller, with no basement and very little storage space. He had ten times the amount of stuff that I did, which was a lot of stuff. I fussed and fumed because all he did was futz on his computer while I packed and culled and cleaned.
He who refused to pack until the very last minute had an entire basement to clean. It took two strong men, two huge dumpsters and two days of work to clear just his basement. The neighbors were polite enough to keep their snickers to themselves.
In the end it all fell into place, which is a good thing because it reaffirmed my decision that my next move will be to a tasteful pine box. My children can deal with all of my earthly belongings, which they refused to take in the first place.
We come to my resolution. We have a lovely home on a street that the city misspelled and refuses to change, in the middle of nowhere, with the closest grocery store a 20 minute drive away, and filled to the rafters with stuff neither one of us can bear to part with.
We have a view of a small, muddy “pond” with a fountain that doesn’t work and a rubber liner that has bubbled up around the edges. And we have spiders the size of small kittens, one of which followed me around the garage the other evening. I talked to him and named him Fred. Yesterday, my husband ran over Fred with the car.
Old people get cranky. I’m beginning to understand why.
squirrelsandchipmonks 