JUST SHUFFLING HIS FEET

JUST SHUFFLING HIS FEET

 But he’s not singing Doo Wah Diddy

 **

 There’s age and then there’s old age and it’s not easy to always accept that inserted adjective.

 Old? Who me? Nah! Age is just a number, right?

 I look at the difference between my husband and our friend, Aaron.

 Aaron is eight-five years YOUNG!  He’s in excellent shape; visits the gym a few times each week, plays pickle ball, goes for long walks, and eats nutritional meals. His posture, while not perfect (I doubt there is anyone with perfect posture) is good. He hardly ever slouches. He rarely eats what we’d refer to as junk food.

 Then, there’s my husband. Unfortunately, he’s eight-five years OLD.

 My husband’s issues with his age are health concerns. Where Aaron is very healthy.

 Why the difference? Genetics? I’m sure they play a big role in how someone ages. Personal care? I’m sure that is the bigger culprit.

 While Aaron is active, my husband is not. Rich shuffles his feet when he walks. When I mentioned this to him, he blames his shoes. I didn’t want to hurt his pride by saying that it doesn’t matter what footwear he’s wearing; he still shuffles.

 Rich now walks slower than usual. He’s developed a hump on his back from slouching and sitting improperly on the couch – which he does too many hours per day watching whatever he can find on the television or Netflix; all this while he munchies on his Cheetos. This hump causes his body to bend from the waist slightly forward.

 Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not complaining. This is the way he was raised.

 His father suffered from tuberculosis (thanks to his stint in the Argonne Forest in World War One).

 After the war, he married and they produced nine children, my husband was second from the youngest.

 During the bouts of tuberculosis, his father was often placed a hospial until his lungs cleared and the infection eased.

 That left the rearing of the children to my husband’s mother. Being overwhelmed and overworked, many things were overlooked as just not being important enough to warrant attention. Like posture! Why badger the children to stand correctly. If they slouched, so what! Their mother did. In her defense, she had nine reasons to not think of posture.

 This is the way he was raised. She did her best to feed and clothe her children and teach them personal hygiene. Posture fell between the cracks, as did periodic doctor visits. They saw and were treated by the local doctor when the need arose. Other than that, nope, again, those proverbial cracks found another victim.

 Getting back to my husband, after his tour of duty in the army (which was spent during the Korean conflict), once home, he married and found work as a carpenter. It was a job he loved but a job, nonetheless, that would irreparably damage his health.

 We met after his first wife succumbed to cancer. Now it’s up to me to become his caregiver. Oh, heavens! I don’t dare tell him that. “I’m fine! I’m fine!” Actually, no he isn’t.

 In addition to the hump on his back, and his increasingly slow gait, he has spasmodic dysphonia. If you’re not sure what it is, listen to how JFK Jr speaks. That broken speech pattern is a result of a malfunctioning larynx. Yes, it’s treatable but not curable. Every three months, Botox injections are administered directly into each larynx fold. It helps the speech pattern – barely.

 In addition to this malady, because of the career he chose which caused him to work with black mold and asbestos, he’s developed COPD.

 One thing we didn’t expect was his aortic aneurysm. It’s sitting about two inches away from his heart and as of today, it’s too small for surgery. The doctors told us that the required size is between 5.1mm and 5.6mm. His is only 4.8.

 I find myself praying that the next scan will show that it’s grown enough for surgery because this damn thing can still leak or rupture at any time. A leak isn’t too critical. It gives him a few hours to have surgery. A rupture? He has less than two hours to get from wherever he is, through the ER, to the OR and have his chest cut open to stop the bleeding.

 All these things, unfortunately for him, put him in the OLD eight-five category. He doesn’t enjoy that realization but at the same time, he knows there is nothing he can do. In the meantime, he takes his daily meds for the COPD, and we wait (not so) patiently for the aortic bubble to grow. I just hope it grows before it bursts.

 I guess the most ironic part of all this is my sun sign says I’m a natural healer. Hmm! Guess it’s not far off. While I’m not a nurse (wish I had that education), I’ve been taking care of people my entire life.

 Growing up, there wasn’t enough money to send my brother and me to college. He went to school; I went to work to help my parents with his college tuition.

 After my divorce from children’s father, I attended classes and became a First Responder.

 So, while my husband shuffles through the house, I’ll go the gym and dance in my Zumba class.

 Hey, it helps keep me a young seventy-nine . . . young enough to take care of my eighty-five-year-OLD husband.

 Doo Wah Ditty, Ditty Dum Ditty Do!!