Discouraging Word

 

The other day my Merriam-Webster page-a-day calendar put up a word I didn’t really want to see: senescence = the state of being old : the process of becoming old.

How insensitive of them!

When I was a kid, all adults were old—from my teachers in their 20s to my great-grandfather in his 90s. Just various versions of old.

Earlier today I posted a “memories” pic from Facebook. It shows my dad in line to march into baccalaureate at Hiram College, spring of 1966–the year I graduated from that college. He was 53–twenty-three years younger than I am now.

He was about to head off to Des Moines, Iowa, to begin another career: He would be a dean at Drake University; my mom would begin her career as a professor there (she had only recently completed her Ph.D. at the University of Pittsburgh).

I thought both of them were old.

(I, by the way, was about to begin my teaching career at Aurora Middle School, just eleven miles west of Hiram.)

I didn’t feel old for a long, long time. And, like many other younger people, I figured it probably wouldn’t happen to me. How could it?

I felt young into my early 70s. I was still going to the health club 5-6 days a week, exercising vigorously—exercise bike, running/walking laps, rowing machine, weights. Prancing around the locker room like, well, like a 53-year-old man. Like my dad back when.

I was 61 when I first developed prostate cancer. Had the surgery, and since then have had two rounds of radiation, immunotherapy. And I still went to the health club—still did pretty much whatever I wanted to do. Going on trips, to the movies, to the mall (remember them?) ...

And then I couldn’t. My balance deteriorated (probably because of the stiff anti-cancer meds I’m on). For a while I rode our exercise bike here at home, but even that became unsafe—I felt at times as if I would fall off. I knew I had to quit.

I use a walker now and then around the house—and always when I go out (which isn’t often: just for medical appointments, mostly).

I don’t drive anymore. Which means I can’t do the errands I used to carelessly do—grocery store, post office, etc. I can’t go to the coffee shop I love here in town—Open Door Coffee Co. I tried once some months ago. Took a fall. Haven’t been back.

I used to do most of the cooking. And you know about baking bread (which I can do only rarely now—on “good” days).

All of which puts a tremendous burden on Joyce, who never complains even though she has her own health issues to contend with. I was more than blessed when our paths crossed in the summer of 1969 at Kent State.

Anyway, reading this over, I see that it’s turned into just another Old Guy’s Story—you know, King Lear raging in the storm.

But I am not King Lear, nor was meant to be.

Instead, I’m just a mortal guy who fooled himself for decades into believing he was immortal.

And the reminders are coming fast that I’m not.

Like a recent word from Merriam-Webster, probably chosen by some young, immortal guy.