Father Time in the Hizzy

I’m a moody person, so I’ve been told. I never thought of myself as such. Rather, I just feel differently and different times. Doesn’t everybody? Sometimes happy. Sometimes sad. Sometimes thoughtful. Sometimes mad. Sometimes fearful. Sometimes bold. Sometimes loving. Sometimes cold. No one can feel the exact same way all the time, can they?

Admittedly, the emotions I feel are at times unpredictable, untethered to a particular incident or circumstance. There are times when I feel easy and content. A bright, sunny day helps lighten my mood but isn’t always the sole author of it. Conversely, I can feel pensive and philosophical, and sometimes despondent. At my core, I am a deep thinker. That may account for what people interpret as my moodiness. I have a serious facial expression as well, my heavy, overhanging brow being a major contributor no doubt. It usually isn’t reflective of my mood but ….

Over the past several months — years actually, but more prevalent lately— a certain train of thought has been chugging through my mind as I’ve approached this station in my life. It’s not the last station on the line. But there ain’t many thereafter. And I’m surrounded by many contemporaries who are also passengers on the same train.

Who are these contemporaries? Celebrities, mostly. Folks in entertainment, sports, media, business, politics, academia, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. For it is the famous — more than the common, everyday people I encounter in daily life — who serve as the living, breathing timepieces that remind me that the train of life is nearing its final destination.

I remember my reaction when I saw the movie Fences back in 2016, starring the handsome, virility-emanating Denzel Washington. The Denzel we all know was still visible: the slightly rounded shoulders and back, the rolling, bow-legged walk and the pursed lips. But I also noticed how more aged he looked in the wife beaters he wore in the movie: less-toned; the belly just a skosh more prominent, the lines in his face deeper. Still appealing, mind you. Still Denzel-ing the movie-going public. But a little worn on the edges. Two years later, Denzel appeared in the violent, action-packed thriller The Equalizer. He recovered somewhat in this one. Always had a shirt on for one. Plus, his character was more badass and physical, attributes that connote youth even as the cosmetic signs of age protruded. I shared in his resurgence.

There are others in the public sphere who serve as mirrors of our own growing mortality: Oprah Winfrey, Harrison Ford, Faye Dunaway, Jim Brown, Rita Moreno, Colin Powell, Madeline Allbright, the former sexiest man alive (at an unusually advanced age at the time) Sean Connery, Nancy Pelosi, Cornel West, Henry Louis Gates, Condoleezza Rice, Wolf Blitzer, Paula Zahn, Jesse Jackson, Michael Douglas, Billy Dee Williams, Sheryl Lee Ralph, Geraldo Rivera, Sam Elliott, Blythe Danner, Al Sharpton, Samuel L. Jackson, Spike Lee, Michael Jordan. (Yeah, I could name more, but really? I grow weary of being “all inclusive.”) Every generation has its icons who move through life and pull the rest of us along. We all see ourselves ageing but the impact is more jarring when we see it in others.

I reached the pivotal age of 40 over 28 years ago. (Spoiler alert!) I am no longer ‘middle-aged’ now and feeling some kind of way about that. No — let me rephrase that. I am feeling some kind of way about how I am being perceived. Am I ‘elderly’? How about a ‘senior’? (Started getting those damned AARP mailers when I hit 50. One of those earlier stops on the train.) Besides the cosmetics — less hair but more gray; less stamina but more belly; less noticeable but more observant — other, more internal, calling cards of age were emerging: frequent dozing while watching TV or reading; more frequent urination (yes, I do keep a plastic ‘portable’ in the car!); more floaters in my yes. At this writing I have recently visited an orthopedist, urologist, ophthalamogist, retinal specialist, and chiropractor. The dentist looms in the not-too-distant future, covid-19 willing.

But I really ran smack into my geriatric challenge on the fateful evening of December 18, 2019. I was in all my athletic glory, playing racquetball with men between 10 and 25 years my junior and holding my own. Not that concessions on my part had not been made. Whereas as little as five or six years ago I could play four or five games in an evening, I was now limited to three — once in a while I could be persuaded to play a fourth. And I could no longer consistently play three nights a week. It was tough making these adjustments but my body overruled my ego and, frankly, I was the better for it. Not to mention that despite ‘holding my own,’ it wasn’t with the same vigor it had been seven or eight years ago. It was a grudging admission but I knew better than to defy the ever-encroaching limitations of advancing age.

Over the past ten or so years of playing racquetball, I’ve been regarded as somewhat of a marvel among my playing comrades. And while I am a modest man by nature, I did secretly bask in the glow of their admiration for my athletic longevity. I appreciated every opportunity to play, knowing deep down that my days of performing at such a competitive level were numbered. ‘Could I play into my 70s?’ I wondered to myself. Of course I’d need more guile to see me through. Physically, I could already feel diminished capacity when compared to the guys I played with. I’d have to acquire more smarts, become more of a student of the game and strategize more. Maybe — God forbid! — play with guys who were more my contemporaries.

But I digress. On that fateful night, I had a mishap that was the beginning of an entirely different perspective on my life. I’ve fallen on the court enough times for it not to be a novel event. Been hit in the mouth with a racquet, jacking up my dental work. Hit in the back of the head with a ball that made me momentarily black out. (A solidly hit racquetball can easily eclipse 100 mph.) And I’ve twisted my ankle here and there. But nothing serious enough to keep me from playing more than a couple of nights, maybe. (Well, there was the dental reparation surgery that kept me out about six months and the time I had knee surgery — three months on that one.). Oh, and a those rather short stints when my groin staged a revolt and I had to nurse it for a couple of weeks. But for the most part, if it was Monday, Wednesday or Friday, I was in the house, prepared to do battle, hammer and tongs. I thrived on the competition.

So, as I stumbled to the floor, I could feel the toe of my right foot got stuck as the rest of my body tumbled awkwardly. The pain was sharp and when I looked up from my back at my right foot, it was jutting out to the right at an almost 90-degree angle. I cried out in a panic and quickly pulled it back into a more visually-appealing position. But when I jumped up and tested its stability, it felt spongy,unstable. I didn’t know it at the time but I had broken my fibula, the lesser of two bones that run from the knee to the ankle.

To make a long story short, I had to wear a walking cast — a boot — for about six weeks. I had crutches but was unsuccessful in using them effectively and quickly dispatched them. For those first few days the pain was great and the inconvenience of the boot weighed heavily on me. I live alone so there was no one to help me along. I managed okay and on January 24, 2020, was healed enough to shed the boot. My ankle continued to improve but it will never be the same. Even now almost a full five months after the injury, it swells a little over the course of the day, though it no longer hurts. I have full flexibility of it but it doesn’t look as youthful as the left one, if that makes any sense. (Me and those cosmetics!) I had decided not to rush back and try to play too soon but I needn’t have to make such a decision. The onset of the coronavirus pandemic shut down any possibility of playing racquetball any time soon.

As if the injury wasn’t enough to mess with my head, other maladies started to evidence themselves. Late last year, I began to show symptoms of AMD — age-related macular degeneration. That was how it was described to me by my ophthalmologist but in reality, my macula — which determines the eye’s ability to focus — have not degenerated. But what I do have is the aforementioned ‘eye junk,’ an increasing amount of floaters in the vitreous of my eyes. My vision is not hampered but the floaters are becoming more evident. Then the urinary stuff stuff, along with the attending prostate concerns. In the meantime, on my follow-up appointment with my ophthalmologist, she saw something in my left eye that warranted a consult with a retina specialist. (Oh Lord, what now!) As it turns out, my macula are fine and he totally dismissed the eye junk, casually defining it as a normal consequence of ageing. (That word again!) I was grateful for the ‘get out of jail free’ opinion and merrily made my way back home.

Now, most-recently, is the back thing. I’d been feeling something in my lower back moving down into my right buttock and further into my right thigh sometime during the late fall and early winter of last year. It would come and go but when it came, I was in discomfort that was not easily ignored. Eventually, the condition got more consistent, to the point that I could barely without formidable pain, let alone walk normally. (Terrible presentation, I might add!) After scouring YouTube for a diagnosis and trying different exercises that produced no results, I consulted a chiropractor. X-rays showed I have degenerative disc disease, causing sciatica. (I had pretty much narrowed my personal diagnosis down to either sciatica or piriformis syndrome. ) Despite two weeks of therapy with the chiropractor — which included electric stimulation and mechanical rollers designed to help move and separate my L4 and L5 vertebrae — my pain and almost complete immobility was as evident as ever. Encouragingly, my chiropractor maintains I should be able to achieve eventual normalcy in my back but an MRI should be ordered to get all the facts.

The MRI discovered three bulging discs, so the plot has thickened but my chiropractor says I am not in the surgery category and pain management and his continued therapy should restore me. Well, I’ve gotten some scripts from my primary doctor’s office but am not enthused about pumping myself full of drugs. And frankly, what I have pumped so far is not providing much relief — I’m still getting my ass kicked, literally. So I have ordered an inversion table. It was suggested by one of the office people at the MRI place. My sister-in-law had also mentioned it to me during an earlier phone conversation. Right now, I’m hurting as much as ever and the next step is to get some shots in my back to relieve the stress. Meanwhile, I’ll be traipsing to the chiropractor to continue my treatment.

Now, about my body image. At 6' 2" tall, and being 68 years old, weighing 210 ain’t bad. But the focus of my dismay is the belly. I’ve never had wash-board abs but I’m starting to ‘Dunlap’ up in here. I never thought it would happen to me and still I’m not quite sure how it got past my scrutiny. I detest it. It’s probably within the range of what would be considered normal for a man of my age but damn! It makes me look — advanced. (How’s that for denial?) So yes, it’s messing with my psyche, as is all the stuff I described above!

For right now, I just want to walk without pain. (It’s a bad look! Remember: presentation, presentation, presentation!) I miss that simple physiological act. And as much as I’d love to pick up racquetball again, I’d be content with just walking. Next would be hitting the dirt trails on my downhill bike, replete with knobby tires, dual shocks, disc brakes and a GoPro camera on my helmet, recording it all.

So I ain’t done yet! And guess what? As soon as my back gets right and I can get back into the exercise room again, I’m gonna drop 10 pounds. I swanny! As the very late, great, Latin-lover Fernando Lamas once said as a guest on the Johhny Carson show, “It is better to look good than to feel good!” I’ll take a little bit of both, thank you very much.

BTW, forgot to mention I have a little bit of hypertension? Or is that like being a little bit pregnant?