Ode Age

 

There seems to be a quiet conspiracy taking place within my major organs and appendages. I have recognized most recently that what could only be identified as small deposits of age are being smuggled, muscle by muscle, into my every day routine.

I can still recall days of spotless skin, taut and tanned. When ankles routinely pivoted painlessly. My wrapped wrists pulled true with every swing of the bat. The subject of the game falling beyond the scrambling legs of every outfielder.

Sure-footed, I made first base and sometimes more in footwear worn and torn. My body could run, turn, and stop at will, with no need to catch more than a single effortless breath. Backyard tackles brought grass stains, cold muddy cheeks and smiles, back when my body still bounced as it hit the ground. “Let’s do it again” were the only cries to be heard. Conversations rang true as a bell, and my responses were quick. My stories held listeners in the palm of my hand with every adjective low and slow.

I’ve traded all that prowess and quick wit for wisdom posing as eyes that twinkle and cheeks that wrinkle. Now my gait is more measured as each day I diligently survey the terrain before me. Familiar is good, exotic must be pondered. Take the case of climbing the risers for a photo-op with fellow graduates at my 56-year high school class reunion. The convergence of time and space at that moment was significant. Marking time as 74-year-old men and women pose for someone else’s viewing pleasure. Yes, there seems to be a quiet conspiracy taking place.

Upon self-examination these days, the top of the right side of my left foot and the bottom of the left side of my right foot brings some pain at night now and again. The left one is of a dull sort, the right one is the shooting variety. At times the back of my neck burns a bit for no reason, kind of like my left hip after standing awhile. My right thumb is also giving me fits and I don’t know why. I haven’t planted a tree or pitched a ball for some years now. There are more voluntary afternoon naps, identical to those once mandated by my mother and dreaded as a child.

There are times when I reach for a cup of coffee or knife and fork recognizing slight tremored in my outstretched hand. Then there’s the unrecognized face in the mirror. Now my body bares barnacles, topped by ever-whitening hair and a double chin (or two). There is some hearing loss that dictates my seating position in public. The right ear currently has a slight infection requiring four drops twice a day, while my dry eye requires one drop in each eye twice daily. For sinus drainage I had measured out 5 milligrams of medicated syrup, to swish around in my mouth until it’s fully coated and then swallow it all. I’ve recently replaced that chore with squirting 8 fluid ounces of a warm saline rinse in both nostrils nightly. Yet and still, I feel a satisfying sense of accomplishment in replenishing my color-coded pill container once a week.

Lastly, according to my dentist, I’ve a need for prescription toothpaste. That process involves brushing with fluoride-infused paste which I’ve been strictly instructed not to swallow, but to rinse with tiny bit of water then spit. Accidental swallowing could lead to gastrointestinal problems. It’s the prescription toothpaste that’s insulting, but as an educated man of wonder I know this is all just a phase I’m going through. Oh, amidst the quiet conspiracy taking place I almost forgot the good news. My use of an inhaler is down to one puff every morning and my cardiac loop-recorder implant is working beautifully.