I'M FINE! I'M FINE!

I’M FINE! I’M FINE!

 I’ll put that on his tombstone.

 **

 To make our lives a bit easier, I keep a calendar in the kitchen with all our approaching doctor appointments. Mine are in blue and my husbands are in red. I chose this method so he could just look at the open page and know what day he needs to keep free.

 Whoa! Keep free? What am I dreaming?

 First, I need to clarify. My husband is 85 years OLD…. I say that because there are OLD 85-year-olds and then there are those that are young for that same age.

 An example: our friend who is 85, plays pickle ball three times a week. My husband? Well, here’s his schedule. He usually wakes up in the morning between 8:30 and 9. The exceptions are doctors’ appointments (if they’re early) and his Friday morning breakfast club.

 Once awake, he’ll put on the TV. His programs of choice? Either a marathon of the news or a marathon of Netflix. For about an hour each day, he’ll read. He won’t read non-fiction. If it’s not something that has happened, he’s not interested. He likes books on World War I. Political books are things he enjoys. However, once he’s finished with a book, if there isn’t another thing that sparks his interest, it then turns into the couch and TV for the entire day.

 Then by 11am, he’s taking a nap. Once a month, he’ll wander in the yard and trim our bushes. He can no longer cut the grass. We hire someone to do that.

This has gotten to be his life. The ironic part is when the doctor asked about his daily activities, he’ll talk about trimming the bushes, washing the windows, washing the lanai floor. Okay, so does all these things but not on a daily basis. The bushes are trimmed once a month. The windows get washed once every six months (if we’re lucky). The lanai floor gets power washed once every six months. But in the meantime, it’s TV or reading. Or …. Napping.

 The other day, we visited his sister who’d just been released from the hospital and was recovering in a rehab center.

 During the conversation, as old people will do, we began talking about our ailments. Or maybe I should say they did. It was brother and sister time so for the most part, I kept quiet.

 Joan is 96 and in relatively great health. She just had a bout of low blood pressure, and her son decided a stay in the hospital was what she needed. However, other than that, all her senses are sharp! She doesn’t need glasses or hearing aids. Her mind is as sharp as it was when she was twenty. She’s never needed any pain meds for the arthritis that usually invades the bodies of us older people.

 Joan asked “So, Rich how are you feeling?”.

 My husband mentioned his lung problems and the medications he’s on.

 Then, to my surprise, he says he’s having trouble feeling the bottom of his feet.

 “What the hell?” I looked at him and asked, “When did this start?”

 “About six months ago.”

 “Did you tell the podiatrist?” I asked hopefully.

 “No, I’m fine.” He said. He hates to admit that he’s getting older and might have health problems.

 Meanwhile, Joan is quiet but listening to this verbal exchange.

 “No, you’re not fine! Neuropathy can be very serious.” I wanted to scream but kept my voice down since we were in a rehabilitation center.

 “I said I was fine!” he said trying not to get nasty.

 His sister looked at him and asked, “Is that all that’s wrong?”

 “Well, I do have a bit of trouble lifting my feet. I can’t seem to walk the right way. I shuffle more often.”

 “What?” I said still trying not to raise my voice.

 “I’m fine! I said I was fine!” he barked at me.

 I could see how worried his sister now looked.

 “Rich, honey,” I said a little quietly, “if you find it difficult to lift your feet and you can’t feel the bottom of your feet, do you have any idea how easy it is for you to trip and fall?”

 Joan finally spoke up, “Rich, do yourself a favor and get a walker.”

  “I said I’m fine, I don’t need a walker!”

 I didn’t want to get nasty but my words, even though they had no effect, were, “Then this is how it’s going to be. When, and we both know that is not an IF, WHEN you trip and fall, I’m calling 9-1-1 because there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to pick you up. Then you’ll have no choice but to use a walker and you’ll be damn lucky if they don’t put you in a wheelchair.”

 He clenched his teeth and snarled, “I said I’m fine!”

 Turning my head to look at his sister, I commented, “Joan, when he dies, that’s what’s going on his tombstone: “I said I was fine!”

 Our visiting time was just about over, and we hugged Joan and said we’d visit again in a few days.

 As we were walking out of her room, she called out, “Rich, get a damn walker!”

 As of this writing, he didn’t and he’s napping on the couch.

 And so ends another “fine” day!