When a friend tells me about a new pain in her left foot and I realize it is the same pain that started recently in my own left foot, it feels like we are sharing the secrets of growing old.
The young don’t know such things.
How it happens slowly, inexorably, creeping into the bones, joints, flesh—little aches, loss of strength.
We avoid going to the doctor, preferring to check out our symptoms among ourselves or on the Internet.
We keep walking, running, biking, swimming. We take up Zumba and tai chi. We scoff when our children tell us to slow down and be more careful.
“I’ve got to get in better shape,” I say to my daughter, “to keep up with my friend Ginny on the hiking trails.”
“No,” says my daughter. “Don’t go on those dangerous walks with her. Be safe.”
I said the same things to Adrian—fifteen years my senior—about slowing down.
“Use a walking stick.”
“Give up the dirt bike.“
“Ice-skating is too dangerous at your age.”
He didn’t listen. He didn’t stop. He used himself up.
Now it is our middle-aged children who are worrying about their old parents.
“You shouldn’t be driving at night.”
“You can’t manage that big house with all the stairs.”
“Your time is over, honey. Let us package you in a safe bunting of cotton. Let us preserve you in a jar of formaldehyde so we can visit you on alternate Sundays and say to the kids, ‘There’s Granny! Wave at her!’”
