Category: Aging

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Adopt a Granny

Did you know that in Canada there are over two million senior citizens living on $18,000 or less per year? That is, 15% of all seniors live in poverty.

Can you live on 18K or less a year?

A large percentage of these people are single and women.

If ten million dollars can be raised to support an illegal protest, then surely people could spare a hundred dollars or so a month to help a senior.

I have said it before. A small amount of money can make a huge difference in someone’s life. And it is often the lack of a bit of currency that denies people a decent life and robs them of their dreams.

I know seniors are not as cute as a puppy or as endearing as a child, but they are just as in need of housing, food, medicine, care and companionship.

You are probably not aware of a seniors needs. Adults tend to hide their poverty.

So if you know of someone, and it could be your own granny or grandpa, that could really benefit by you buying their medicine once in a while, pay their rent for a couple of months, buy their groceries for a few weeks, or just give them some extra cash to do with as they please, it’d really be appreciated.

Adopt a Granny today.

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Nat King Cole

My friend and I sat at a long curved table, that cupped a window with backwards lettering announcing it is a ‘Piano Bar.’ Unassuming, it was a tiny bar, tucked in between two imposing Federal Government office buildings. A long haired man, thirtyish, played a keyboard at our side. His singing was a bit nauseating, but after a few beers no one was really listening anymore.

Across from us was an older couple, maybe in their fifties. They looked like they didn’t have much money. They sat nursing one beer between the two of them.

The piano man asked if anyone would like to sing.

I could never be drunk enough to volunteer to do that, but the man sitting across from us stood up and we cringed. Yes, he’d like to sing. Sing for his beloved, he pointed to the woman he was with, who smiled a grin that was missing a few teeth. He wanted to sing Unforgettable. My friend and I looked at each other. This was going to be unforgettable for sure. We prepared to plug our ears.

The musician fumbled with his music scores, found it and started playing, while the man casually, easily picked up the microphone. He stood in the center of the room and looked fondly at his mate.

Then he opened his mouth to sing, on cue.

The voice that came from that craggy face, emanated from those bar worn lungs neath a shabby windbreaker was from Nat King Cole himself. My mouth dropped open, and the man smiled at me, knowingly.

He sang that one song and refused to sing any more. His girlfriend smiled affectionately at him as he sat down beside her.

He wouldn’t even take a beer from us.

What an unforgettable evening.

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Getting Dressed

I was not required to be a fashionista in my former job, in fact, I got to wear the same type of clothes every single working day for the past 15 years. Scrubs.

It made my life enormously easy.

But how boring!

Last week I looked in my closest and saw the most delightful assemblage of neglected beautiful clothes that I seldom, if ever had a chance to wear.

Ditto for jewellery.

Another discovery during my covid at home stay – I have neglected my femininity.

Forgotten it completely, actually.

The first day I got dressed up in fancy clothes I remembered how good it feels. How nice it looks. That I am a woman. And it is a huge privilege.

Sometimes our jobs make us forget that we are more than slaves, robots or things in scrubs. Make us forget our selves. Make us dress and act for them.

But there has to be a time for us. When we can dress and be crazy, sexy, wild, shabby, extravagant, elegant or go naked. Load ourselves down with necklaces, rings, bracelets and pins until we look ridiculous. Have fun!

Clothes and accessories can be a creative expression of who you are. I forgot that I have a personality. That I am a lousy dresser. That I have purchased some pretty out there clothes, but also some expensive designer stuff.

That I am way over do for some new outfits.

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Hands

Us older women have a thing about hands.

We can improve our looks with makeup. We can dye away the grey hair. We can hide our bat wings with long sleeves. We can smooth out the lumps and bumps with the proper clothes.

But we can’t hide our hands.

And our hands won’t hide our age.

I look at my hands and I see something else beyond my age.

These hands wiped away tears and sweat. They cradled delicate beings and moved heavy furniture. They loved and they punched. With them I created beautiful things and destroyed the ugly.

They express my every emotion while I talk. They cook, they clean, they endure a lot of punishment. I’ve cut them with paper, knife, saw and razor blade. Chewed off their nails and cuticles. They’ve been immersed in some terrifying chemicals, and turned soil in gardens and pots.

Fingers have danced across typewriters, keyboards and musical instruments. I’ve strangled and discoloured them with jewellery. Broken blood vessels while boxing. Sprained them when falling. Overused them until they hurt. Slammed fingers in drawers and doors. I’ve smashed them with hammers, pierced them with nails, pins and needles.

They have rescued me.

They have enabled me to do the impossible, make dreams become reality, comfort and love the unlovable.

They have been in every orifice of my body, know every ounce of my skin. They scratch and rub and soothe.

I look at them and see a life lived.

Seldom do they complain.

Except when the weather is cold and damp.

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Body Identity

I have watched a lot of videos about animals that are disabled and how they live their lives. One in particular gave me a lot of pause for thought.

A beautiful cat with no front legs and hops around like a kangaroo, plays, rolls, head butts, gives chase and does all the things my cat does and has just as much joy. And he doesn’t seem to notice that he is any different than any other cat. He is unaware. Problem? What problem?

How can that be?

And then I realized it is because they are not identified as their body. They are a cat. It does not matter the body. They are cat no matter what their body looks like.

So what does it mean to be human?

Who am I other than my body?

Women are heavily identified with their appearance, so it is not an easy question to answer. We have been taught from the moment we arrive on this planet that our appearance determines our future, our success, our ability to win at life.

The gift of me getting older is this, my body no longer cooperates with my efforts to remain attractive.

It says, ponder that message from the kangaroo cat. He has the answer. He knows the secret.

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Crutches

Over the 2020 Christmas holidays I sprained my foot and had to dust off some crutches I got several years ago. Many times I thought I should get rid of those crutches, but was awfully glad I hadn’t.

It was a memorable Christmas, as was most of 2020, not in a totally good way, as my bathtub was also backed up from December 22nd into the New Year, as no one wants to come and deal with that during the holidays. Sigh. So I took a shower and afterwards, sat on the toilet and bailed my bath water from tub to sink. Picture that.

2020 had it all man.

Anyhow.

As I hobbled around my house, I remembered my ill fated introduction to these crutches.

They are beautiful, extremely light weight aluminum, as light as a feather. But crutches, I have discovered, could weigh 500 pounds, because it is not so much the weight of them to consider, as the effort required to use them to propel yourself.

In my infinite wisdom, I decided to use them one day at work, replacing the cane I normally employ for a hurt leg. Typical me, whatever works in a small situation is bound to work in a grander circumstance. So just shuffling from my office chair to the bathroom a couple of times convinced me I could do greater things.

I launched myself to the library at lunch, because when I was well I had no trouble going the few blocks there, a mere 5 to 10 minute walk. I swung merrily along like those mechanical monkeys on bars I’d seen as a kid.

When I got to the library, I had one of those moments where I was sure I was about to die.

I collapsed on the nearest bench in the foyer, sweat bursting from my every pore, my heart pounding like tribal drums. I desperately needed to lie down on the floor and wanted to moan, loudly, like those professional wailers at funerals. All I could do was put my face in my hands and cry.

Using crutches demands that you be in some kind of decent physical shape before you try to go miles with them. The physical exertion is unbelievable!

At least I forgot about my hurt leg for a while.

And, I still had to go back to work. How the hell was I going to carry library books anyhow? Duh! I was just so enthusiastic about going to the place I love.

I opted to drag my poor leg back to the office and carry the darn crutches.

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Bare Face

It has now been 10 months since I’ve worn makeup.

Not that I miss it.

When I was young, I wore makeup to enhance my looks. When I was older, I wore it to cover up my looks.

But now, who cares.

I’ve been out of work since we closed the office in mid March 2020, so I put away the mascara and blush and concealer and whatnot.

No more poisons on my face. Just look at the ingredients in those things! I tried at one time to make my own cosmetics from natural stuff and failed miserably.

My cat could care less what I look like, as long as the food dish is full and the litter box pooh free.

I have no idea how to do skype or zoom so no worries about what I look like. And I’m a senior, no matter what you plaster on my face. I don’t get asked for ID at the store on Seniors day. Mascara, concealer and blush ain’t gonna fool them 20 somethings at the cash.

Makeup won’t catch me a 20 year old for a fling. It’d kill me anyways.

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Last Walks Before Winter

I have a condition called Polymyalgia Rheumatica, just a fancy name for “Holy Shit, my body is attacking itself!”

Mostly, it likes to eat my feet, effectively preventing me from going any further than to the store across the street. It amazes me how a such a small spot on my foot can totally disable me.

But for some reason, I got a reprieve the past week.

Just in time to catch a bit of nature in autumn.

Thank you!

Last walks before winter. Last walks until who knows when.

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Piles

When I was working I accumulated piles.

No not, hemorrhoids!

Actual piles of ‘to do later’ stuff.

Piles of ‘I can’t deal with that now’ stuff.

And mental piles, virtual to do lists that clog up the brain like sludge.

Come to think of it, they are sort of like hemorrhoids. Ugh.

Piles destroy your quality of life. You cannot live well when you have piles, of any type.

I quite literally had decades of stuff piled up. The actual piles of stuff like paper etc. were annoying to clean up and time consuming but once all was sorted, trashed, cleaned and put away, I could start working on the mental piles.

Things that are stashed away in your mind are the things that make you exhausted and irritable and sometimes crazy. They are unfinished business, and your brain hates unfinished business. It will work 24/7 to solve your problems, to get what you want, to complete your lists whether you are conscious of them or not. This is what your brain is suppose to do; think, solve, plan, organize, be a manager of the rest of you. So mentally file something away and your brain is on it! And no, writing them down does not quiet your brain. It will work even harder on those because they are in writing

The tasks of finishing the unfinished, loving the unloved and the neglected is gut wrenching. From the simple things of sewing a bra strap back on, to finally writing a thank you note (it is never too late for either, your bra and friends understand) I gradually cleared all those mental to do lists out. In the process I discovered many things I’d forgotten about. Embarrassing stuff. Silly stuff. Oh, that would have been great to do stuff.

The great thing about being retired – no matter how short term this may prove to be (money!) is I seemingly have vast expanses of time to do more. Seemingly, because now I really don’t want to do more. I’ve stopped collecting piles, real and imagined and just live for the moment. If something catches my attention, well, if I don’t do it now, I probably will never do it. I will not file it away as a to do later, or sometime if I feel like it.

I am happy to be free of piles for the time being. Life gets so far ahead of you when you are working. Your life belongs to the office and everything else is neglected. So glad those days are OVER.

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Hot Spot

Getting a notice on your door from the City informing you that your area is now deemed a Covid-19 hot spot is a lot like being told, oh by the way, your house is located on ground zero.

“We’re going to test you and let you know if your house is on fire.” Okay.

I make light of this, only because, it was pretty terrifying.

Testing is strictly voluntary, but it is the right thing to do, and we all know it. This way we can know what the demographics are, and do contact tracing. We are so fortunate to live in a country that is making every effort to arrest the spread of this disease. It is an uphill battle as people get tired of the whole affair. Especially the young, which is where the increase of infections are happening now.

And so they came and tested all of us, in our parking lot, one beautiful summer weekend. We stood outside in a long line, six feet apart, with our masks on, waiting our turn and trying very, very hard to pretend none of us is worried. At least I got to see some fellow tenants I haven’t seen in ages, that were once regular fixtures in my day to day life. But we didn’t talk, just nodded our recognition of each other, and kept our thoughts to ourselves.

The mobile testing unit was extremely well organized. The staff were so professional, courteous and talkative, well, when you haven’t had much human contact in a long while this was almost a pleasant outing. These are strange times.

The test itself is slightly uncomfortable, but the person doing it took their time and were so reassuring. I commend them for their patience. I’m not a youngster anymore and it takes me a while to accept a swab up my nose and in my throat. But hey, at my age, I have had way more invasive tests than this, that lasted forever and have traumatized me for life. So if you want the test, be assured, this is nothing.

No word is a good word, that is, if you don’t hear from the Public Health Nurse the next day, you are okay. But I checked my results anyways on-line and I am negative. Which, strangely, is not all that reassuring.

If you are negative, then you are still extremely vulnerable to getting Covid-19. And now I am a hundred times more afraid to go out.

If you’re positive, then it is like sitting on a time bomb, wondering when it will go off. Listening to it ticking each day. And then you fear, have I given this thing to someone else, someone I love?

All this just added to the ambiguity of my life at the moment and kind of makes everything that has happened since that fateful day in March, when they told us to close our office and go home, surreal.