Getting Old Is Not For Wimps (Part Two)

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

Getting Old Is Not For Wimps (Part Two)

“it’s not the bending over… it’s the getting back up”

When my father thought his radio was broken (October 2022), and all it turned out to be was he had the volume control knob turned down, it made me laugh... but it made me sad, too. 

     There was a time when my father could do anything he set his mind to. At twelve he’d fix his uncle's car in exchange for the opportunity to take it for a spin. I’d bet, even at that age, he tried enticing the fairer sex with a ride in his borrowed jalopy.

     When he was stationed in the Philippines during World War Two, he built a washing machine for his platoon. He used a metal barrel, a jeep, and his own personal smarts. I don't know if washing machines had even been invented then, but HE had one. I have a picture of it. He's posing next to it with a big smile on his face, proud as all get out.

     Years later, after he was married and I was old enough to pay attention, I remember watching him fix the vacuum cleaner. He took it apart, piece by piece, and laid those pieces on a tarp in the order he removed them. That way, he knew the proper sequence of reattaching this to that. “The knee bone's connected to the thigh bone,” as the song goes. 

     However, when you get older things begin to fail. Your vision. Your hearing. Your, um, aptitude for friskiness… or so I've heard. Your thinking process, which used to be crystal clear, becomes muddled and, like your vision, blurry. 

     I remember watching a documentary by Desmond Morris called The Human Animal. Desmond Morris is a zoologist who studies human behavior. One of his observations was how, when we're young, we can almost defy gravity. We run and jump and practically fly through the air. Yet, as we age, that same gravity grabs us hard and drags us down. Walking is an effort. Getting up from the couch an impossibility. That reminds me of a joke:

     An old married couple is sitting on the couch watching TV.

     “Let’s go upstairs and get frisky,” the elderly lady tells her husband.

     “Pick one or the other,” the old man says. “I can’t do both.”

     When you're a kid you can fly off the couch like a bullet fired from a gun. Zero to sixty in less than a second. However, when you're old, you develop a fondness for the phrase, "Help me up." I'm not saying my father can't get off the couch on his own. He can. Eventually. It just takes some grunting and groaning. 

     I’ve learned not to help my father unless he asks for it. "You don't think I can get off the couch on my own?" he griped when I tried. A second later, he held out his hand and said, "Make yourself useful.” 

     If my grandson makes an appearance when my father is shuffling from one part of the house to the other, he will freeze. He gets nervous when his great-grandson is around. All that running and jumping means only one thing to him: "Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!" My father will stop, hold onto something for dear life, and wait for the Tasmanian Devil that is my grandson to pass. 

     Why is it, as we get older, we become so unsteady on our feet? Why is it the simplest of problems requiring the minimum amount of mental effort to solve--like turning the volume control knob on the radio--becomes the mental equivalent of climbing Mount Everest? 

     I like to people watch, and it always saddens me to see the elderly lumber along, some so slowly they appear to be moving backward. They almost seem to be traveling in a different time stream. Maybe they are. A time stream slower than the one the world that’s left them behind lives in. Kids, on the other hand, zip along in a faster reality. Looking at my grandson run and jump is like looking at my TV set when I'm fast-forwarding through the commercials. On the other hand, watching my father is like watching a documentary where those underwater explorers with the big, round metal helmets on their heads dreamily stroll along the ocean floor.

     Getting old is not for wimps, my friends.

     Every morning, rain or shine, my father walks around the neighborhood. I think he thinks that as long as he keeps moving he won’t die. Sadly, that's not the case. His 98-year-old brother died just a few days before Christmas last year, and the wife of the pastor of our church died just a few days after. She was 62. Still, every morning, in the heat or the cold, in the dry or the wet, he'll force himself to get up and go. 

     "Pop, it's raining," I'll tell him. It doesn't matter.

     "Pop, it's hot," I'll warn. He doesn't care.

     To him, walking gives him a continuing purpose.

     Of course, he's walking slower these days, and not as far. His aches and pains don't completely go away, but what’s the alternative? Regretfully, I realize that's what waits for me at the end of my own personal time stream.

IF I’m lucky enough to live that long, that is.

     Hmm… lucky…

     One man's dream is another man's nightmare, I guess.

 

 ************************

I’ve reached the age where it takes me an hour to make Minute Rice.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

    

Getting Old Sure Stinks (Part One)

  as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

Getting Old Sure Stinks (Part One)

“sharing is caring, unless they’re problems”

I’ve reached the age where I've gone from “old enough to know better” to “too old to care.”

     Fortunately for me, my wife cares, so she makes sure I go to my various doctor appointments where I get poked, prodded, and lectured. Unfortunately for her, I’m like my mother, who didn’t care to go to the doctor or take medication, and yet somehow lived to a ripe old age.

     When I explained this aversion to my buddy Maloney, he reminded me of a friend of ours who recently died from prostate cancer. Like my mother, our friend also didn’t like going to the doctor. By the time he went, his cancer was Stage 4 and already spreading to his other organs.

     “If they caught it earlier,” Maloney told me, “he’d be alive today.”

     "See?" my wife said, also reminding me of something. Mainly, to make sure nobody ever tells me anything in front of her again.

     I thought about my old friend, now dead. We were close. That is, until he borrowed money from me. Now I’ll never get it back.

     A few months ago my doctor told me I had to watch my cholesterol because it was high. He wanted to put me on medication to lower it. I didn't care for the sound of that. In the first place, isn’t it easier for me to watch my cholesterol when I have more of it? In the second place, the last time I was put on that kind of medication the left side of my face went numb. I quit taking it. I’m not vain, but when I go into a haunted house on Halloween I don’t want to come out with a job application. 

     My doctor said he would prescribe a different type of medication, one that wasn’t so strong, but I wasn’t planning on taking that one either. That's my medical advice, kids. If you don't like the diagnosis, ignore it. In the end, there was a lesson to be learned, and what I learned was, "You can run, but you can't hide." At least, not from my wife.

     "You're taking the medication," she told me.

     "But it could make me gassy," I said, remembering one of the side effects.

     “Even more than usual?”

     That's the thing about getting older. Your body changes in ways you don't expect. For example, where did these bags under my eyes come from? They’re so big I could carry fifty dollars worth of groceries in them. Still, it's not the medication that bothers me. It's the side effects. Do they always have to be bad? Can't they ever be good?

     For example, the cholesterol medication I’m now taking against my will can cause problems with my liver. If I'm not mistaken, I think I need my liver. At the very least, I'd like to keep it. If it does cause problems, it's recommended I immediately see a doctor.

A doctor.

Who will prescribe even more medication.

Worst case scenario... the unthinkable. You know, death. Although I don't know why it's called "the unthinkable." It's very thinkable. In fact, my father thinks about it all the time.

     The idea of dying never used to bother me. Then I had kids. Who wants to cause their children that kind of pain? Not me. You see, I have two soft spots. One is for my kids, and the other I carry around my midsection

Stomach pain is another side effect. As well as loss of appetite. That makes sense. Who wants to eat when you feel like you've been punched in the gut? Muscle pain, headaches, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea.... Yeah, sounds like I'm going to be the life of every party I go to. 

     Anecdotally, I can tell you that it’s been harder for me to fall asleep at night. Also, I dream more. That hasn’t happened to me since the odd adventures I used to experience at night when I first got my Covid-Xi vaccinations (“Butterfly Dreams” May 2021). Additionally, I feel as if I’m not as mentally sharp as I was pre-medication. A sort of fuzzy consciousness.

Aches and pains? How many of those are due to my medication and how many are because I’m slowly easing my way into geezerhood? Now that I think about it, as I go through the list of side effects, they look more and more like symptoms of aging. Fear or nervousness. Feeling sad or empty. Irritability. Loss of interest or pleasure. Maybe it’s the medication. Or maybe I’m turning into my father.

     My wife suggested talking to someone.

     “A psychiatrist?” I gulped.

     “Not necessarily a psychiatrist," she insisted.

     I don't need a psychiatrist.

My father’s been psychoanalyzing me my whole life.

     On the way back from my last doctor's appointment, my beautiful wife wanted me to stop and buy her some Bobbi Brown face cream. She tells me it keeps her looking young. Maybe she should tell the ladies behind the counter.

Anyway, I came back empty-handed.

I had forgotten the face cream.

     Getting old has its advantages.

     If only I could remember what they were.

 

 ************************

I’m aging less like a fine wine and more like a fine banana.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

Fuzzy Consciousness

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

RaisingDad

by Jim Duchene

Fuzzy Consciousness

“easing my way into geezerhood”

I’ve reached the age where I've gone from “old enough to know better” to “too old to care.”

     Fortunately for me, my wife cares, so she makes sure I go to my various doctor appointments where I get poked, prodded, and lectured. Unfortunately for her, I’m like my mother, who didn’t care to go to the doctor or take medication, and yet somehow lived to a ripe old age.

     When I explained this aversion to my buddy Maloney, he reminded me of a friend of ours who recently died from prostate cancer. Like my mother, our friend also didn’t like going to the doctor. By the time he went, his cancer was Stage 4 and already spreading to his other organs.

     “If they caught it earlier,” Maloney told me, “he’d be alive today.”

     "See?" my wife said, also reminding me of something. Mainly, to make sure nobody ever tells me anything in front of her again.

     I thought about my old friend, now dead. We were close. That is, until he borrowed money from me. Now I’ll never get it back.

     A few months ago my doctor told me I had to watch my cholesterol because it was high. He wanted to put me on medication to lower it. I didn't care for the sound of that. In the first place, isn’t it easier for me to watch my cholesterol when I have more of it? In the second place, the last time I was put on that kind of medication the left side of my face went numb. I quit taking it. I’m not vain, but when I go into a haunted house on Halloween I don’t want to come out with a job application. 

     My doctor said he would prescribe a different type of medication, one that wasn’t so strong, but I wasn’t planning on taking that one either. That's my medical advice, kids. If you don't like the diagnosis, ignore it. In the end, there was a lesson to be learned, and what I learned was, "You can run, but you can't hide." At least, not from my wife.

     "You're taking the medication," she told me.

     "But it could make me gassy," I said, remembering one of the side effects.

     “Even more than usual?”

     That's the thing about getting older. Your body changes in ways you don't expect. For example, where did these bags under my eyes come from? They’re so big I could carry fifty dollars worth of groceries in them. Still, it's not the medication that bothers me. It's the side effects. Do they always have to be bad? Can't they ever be good?

     For example, the cholesterol medication I’m now taking against my will can cause problems with my liver. If I'm not mistaken, I think I need my liver. At the very least, I'd like to keep it. If it does cause problems, it's recommended I immediately see a doctor.

A doctor.

Who will prescribe even more medication.

Worst case scenario... the unthinkable. You know, death. Although I don't know why it's called "the unthinkable." It's very thinkable. In fact, my father thinks about it all the time.

     The idea of dying never used to bother me. Then I had kids. Who wants to cause their children that kind of pain? Not me. You see, I have two soft spots. One is for my kids, and the other I carry around my midsection

Stomach pain is another side effect. As well as loss of appetite. That makes sense. Who wants to eat when you feel like you've been punched in the gut? Muscle pain, headaches, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea.... Yeah, sounds like I'm going to be the life of every party I go to. 

     Anecdotally, I can tell you that it’s been harder for me to fall asleep at night. Also, I dream more. That hasn’t happened to me since the odd adventures I used to experience at night when I first got my Covid-Xi vaccinations (“Butterfly Dreams” May 2021). Additionally, I feel as if I’m not as mentally sharp as I was pre-medication. A sort of fuzzy consciousness.

Aches and pains? How many of those are due to my medication and how many are because I’m slowly easing my way into geezerhood? Now that I think about it, as I go through the list of side effects, they look more and more like symptoms of aging. Fear or nervousness. Feeling sad or empty. Irritability. Loss of interest or pleasure. Maybe it’s the medication. Or maybe I’m turning into my father.

     My wife suggested talking to someone.

     “A psychiatrist?” I gulped.

     “Not necessarily a psychiatrist," she insisted.

     I don't need a psychiatrist.

My father’s been psychoanalyzing me my whole life.

     On the way back from my last doctor's appointment, my beautiful wife wanted me to stop and buy her some Bobbi Brown face cream. She tells me it keeps her looking young. Maybe she should tell the ladies behind the counter.

Anyway, I came back empty-handed.

I had forgotten the face cream.

     Getting old has its advantages.

     If only I could remember what they were.

 

 ************************

In a hundred years this won’t matter.

You know, like it does now.

mrjimduchene@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

It's The Little Things

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

It’s The Little Things

“you’re never too old to learn”

It's not the big things that drive you nuts... it's the little things.

     When I first asked my elderly father to move in with us, I knew there would be a period of adjustment. What I didn't know was just how long that period of adjustment would be. Here it is, years later, and I'm still adjusting.

     My father?

     He's doing just fine.

     My father had been the head of his household well into his 80's. Myself, I've been in charge of my own life since I turned 18, when I put what I learned in my high school geography class to use and went to college out of state.

     As a kid, I learned early on that no one was allowed to touch my father's morning newspaper until he was finished reading it, and, believe me, he took a looong time to read it.

     "Pop," I would ask him, "can I have the comics?"

     "No," he would answer.

     My father was a firm believer in brevity.

     It didn't matter that he never read the comics, or that I would be done with it by the time he was ready to read Dear Abby, which was featured in the same section. He liked reading about other people's problems. It amused him so many people were willing to hang out their dirty laundry for everyone to see.

Personally, I'm not so strict. If any of my kids want to share the newspaper with me, I’m just happy they enjoy being in my company.

     However, when my father first moved in with me, the newspaper quickly became a point of contention between the two of us. You see, I also enjoy reading the newspaper first thing in the morning. My father, however, if he gets to the newspaper before I do, he's like a dog guarding his bone. Grrr...

     Like I said, it's one of those little things that drives me nuts. 

     How did I deal with it?

     Well, to tell you that story, I first have to tell you this story: When I was 12, and prone to overestimating my abilities, we went on a family vacation to the beach.

     "Don't swim out too far," my mother warned me.

     Did I listen?

     Of course not. I knew everything. 

     Needless to say, I immediately swam out further than I should have. When I tried to swim back, I noticed for every three feet I swam forward, the waves dragged me back four. It didn't matter how hard I swam, I kept being pulled further and further back into the ocean. Any further, and I'd have ended up being just another face on a milk carton.

     Oh, sure, I could have yelled for help, but that would have been embarrassing. Thinking about it now, I wonder how many swimmers have drowned because they were too self-conscious to cry out for help, but that wasn't what was on my mind when I was treading water, desperately trying to make it back to shore. It didn't look good. My arms and legs felt like wet noodles. I was getting nowhere fast.

     Did I survive?

     Well, I'm writing this story, aren't I?

     What to do? What to do?

      "Don’t be stupid!" I imagined my father chastising me.

     So I put my about-to-panic brain to work and came up with a plan. I swam WITH the ocean when the waves were moving forward toward the beach, and when the waves moved back toward the open sea, I stopped swimming and rested. Eventually, I made it back to dry land. My arms and legs trembling from exhaustion. I survived because I decided to stop fighting the waves and worked with them instead. And THAT’S what I decided to do with my father, himself a force of nature. I would work with him, not fight against him.

     So now, on those mornings when I get to the newspaper first, I try to be gracious. I offer my father the sections I'm not reading. On the mornings when my father gets to the newspaper before I do, I choose not to argue or get angry, because it IS a choice, after all. Why ruin everybody's day? 

     My father is an old man. I’ve learned that if his only pleasure in life is having the morning newspaper to himself, I can live with that.

     I tell you this because just this morning I was watching TV in the den. In my favorite chair was my father, hogging the newspaper as usual. A commercial for herpes medication came on. In it were people who were swimming and hiking and dancing. Some were busy negotiating important business deals, some were vacationing in exotic lands, and others were enjoying romantic dinners.

     “I guess the ‘S’ in STD must stand for success,” I told my father. 

     “What?” he said.

     “Nothing,” I answered.

     Separating a section from the newspaper, he held it toward me.

     “You want the comics?” he asked.

     I guess he's learned a few things, too.

  

 ************************

I had a handle on life, but it broke.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

Desert Exposure Vs The World

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

Desert Exposure vs The World

“I hate to sound like an old geezer, BUT”

Sometimes I feel like Tony Soprano in the very first scene of the very first episode of HBO’s The Sopranos, where he laments coming in at the tail end of the golden age of organized crime.

    In my case, I feel that way about books.

    I love books the way some people love their children, so it’s hard to believe they're on the way out, being replaced by an electronic media that adds little to the reading experience. Somehow, cozying in bed with a good iPhone doesn’t have the same appeal.

     People these days would rather experience things on a screen than on a page. They don’t know what they're missing. Myself, I still carry a book with me wherever I go, but I'm pretty much a lonely barnacle in an ocean of phone zombies. Science fiction writers imagined many things, but they never imagined that.

     There’s a lot to be said about something physical, something you can turn back the pages of. The experience is more satisfying. Not only that, but you can fall asleep with a book laying against your chest without having to worry that it will give you cancer.

Plus, I love the smell of books, especially old ones. I tried putting my nose to my phone once. All I did was leave a grease spot on the screen.

      My friend Taylor Streit–fisherman, author, raconteur–told me about a bookstore I didn’t know existed. Coas Books in Las Cruces. I visit Las Cruces at least once a month, but had never heard of it. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is. I’ve enjoyed shopping at the bookstore in nearby Mesilla. The one at the plaza with a little blue sign by the front door that says “Book Store.” Still, you would think I’d have heard about Coas before now. My wife and I decided to make a special trip into town to visit the place.

     “I’m going to a bookstore,” I told my father on the way out. “Can I bring you back anything?”

     “Lunch,” he said.

     Out of loyalty, my wife and I first stopped in Mesilla. I asked the very nice lady at the bookstore if she had any books by Taylor. She pointed me to the front window display. I found a copy of Man Vs Fish, but I already have a signed one, so I left empty-handed.

     From there, we drove to Coas and discovered another bookstore to be loyal to. I was surprised at how huge the bookstore is. And quiet. Having been married twice, quiet is something I can appreciate. Sadly, I was told they were out of any books by my friend. Just in case, the helpful young lady at the front desk led me to the Fishing section to look for myself.

     “You know,” I said, not above name dropping to get a discount, “Mr. Streit told me about your bookstore. We met on the internet.”

     “A lot of people do,” she assured me.

     My wife wandered off to look for some Junie B. Jones books for our granddaughter. I scanned the fishing section, but didn’t find what I was looking for. No matter. It would give me a reason to come back. Now that I’m thinking about it, the Bible would fit in nicely on those shelves. A lot of fishermen in that book. Except for Noah. He only had two worms.

     I hate sounding like an old geezer, but I know I do. When Moses parted the Red Sea, I could have been on the other side fishing. That’s why I'm happy with my books, my newspapers, my magazines. What am I going to do when they’re gone? Assuming they cease to exist before I do, that is.

     Take Desert Exposure, for example. Isn’t it better to have something that doesn’t need to be charged before you can read it? As far as I’m concerned, the only thing worth turning on is my beautiful wife.

     With that in mind, let me offer my top ten reasons

  

Why Desert Exposure Is Better Than Electronic Media

  

     10) If you break an issue of Desert Exposure, you won't have to empty your bank account to replace it. I'm not saying electronic media is overpriced, I'm just saying P.T. Barnum would have seen you coming.

  

     9) You can share Desert Exposure. Although, to be honest, my father isn't too keen on sharing his morning newspaper. Even the sections he doesn't read.

     "Can I have the comics, pop?" I used to ask him when I was a kid.

     "No," he'd answer.

     "Why not?"

     "Because I said so," he’d say.

  

     8) When you're moving, just try protecting all of your valuables by wrapping them in your smartphone.

  

     7) What are you going to do with all that unused Silly Putty?

  

     6) If you forget to charge it... oh, wait, Desert Exposure doesn't need to be charged. Suckers!

  

     5) Don't even try housebreaking your dog on a computer. You’ll electrocute the poor thing.

  

     4) Hackers can't hack into the latest issue of Desert Exposure and steal your identity.

  

     3) Toward the end of World War II, Adolph Hitler was in his bunker working on a way to send mail electronically when the prototype caught fire, exploded, and the rest, as Bill O’Reilly will tell you, is history.

  

     2) Look what it did to Elvis.

     

     And the number one reason Desert Exposure is better than electronic media is:

     1) BECAUSE I SAID SO!

     

     Well, that always worked for my father.

  

 ************************

Shouldn’t you be smarter than your phone?

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine