It took 76 years, five months and two weeks and then it finally happened. This aging body finally rebelled. The message was clear: enough is enough; you’ve abused me long enough, I quit.
Remember when we were kids we would look at our parents and think, man I’ll never get that old.
“I’ll never live to be 40” we would tell ourselves. Of course, it happened. I remember when I turned 40 I thought, well that was kind of anti-climatic. Nothing in my life changed, really. September 6 came and went with no dramatic changes in my lifestyle or my physical well-being.
Then came 50. About six weeks prior to my 50th birthday in 1996 came the first signs that the body wasn’t happy with the way it was being treated. A ruptured cerebral aneurysm that took about eight hours of emergency surgery to save my life. But there I was that winter still skiing and playing hockey.
Just a little blip. There were other blips along the way: prostate cancer in 2007 that surgery took care of; and open-heart surgery in 2018 to replace a malfunctioning aortic valve. Each time the body bounced back and for some strange reason the mind was still tricking the body into thinking it was still 40, not 70 something.
But then it happened. The senescence (yes, this is thesaurus working) body, after 917 months and approximately 27,900 days, finally had enough. It surrendered to all the abuse it has taken from those decades of ball, hockey, skiing, tennis, running and other activities I had forced it to endure.
Yes, I got old. Wednesday, Sept. 6 was my 77th birthday and for the first time in my life I feel my age. Well, almost. I have no idea how a 77-year-old is supposed to feel. I do know I no longer have the body or the physical ability of a 50-year-old or even a 60-year-old despite how my mind tries to trick my body.
I am old and the body has had enough abuse. The back is in constant pain, arthritis is in the spine, the sciatic nerve is being pinched so that the pain extends throughout my left leg down to the ankle.
Although I still played ball – slowpitch now – on pretty much every throw the right elbow painfully reminds me that too many summers of pitching too many baseballs without the proper care has resulted in “tennis elbow.” But that’s not new. I’ve dealt with that since I was a teenager back in Sioux Lookout, Ontario.
The latest breakdown is a totally and completely torn supraspinatus tendon in my left shoulder that requires surgery. The first time that any sport has resulted in surgery for me. Except, there likely will not be surgery to repair the damage because…I’m too old. That’s basically what the medical profession has told me, I’m too old for surgery!
YOU’RE TOO OLD!!!
I am so sick and tired of being told I’m too old. Cranky yes, but too old?
Too old for life insurance, too old to work, too old…blah, blah, blah.
It was humorous 25 years ago when my then family doctor, every time I visited with a physical ailment, would say: Tell me again John, how old are you? It’s no longer funny.
Yes I am old, but I’ve also been pretty active my entire life and not ready to fade away into the recliner.
When the doctor in charge of the shoulder clinic told me it’s highly unlikely any surgeon will operate to repair the tear, there was never a question about how active I’ve been all my life; how strong the shoulder was before the injury. Factors I would think should be part of the assessment.
No it’s about age. I admit the body is showing signs of seven decades of wear and tear. But why is age the determining factor? In this day of ever-increasing obesity in people I would think the medical profession would be eager to ensure us old timers can remain active as long as possible.
If they won’t do surgery and I don’t see how physiotherapy will heal the tear, then that probably means I won’t be playing ball anymore. Can’t do much in the gym with one arm. Tough to ski, especially cross-country, without both arms.
Six months from now I’ll see my family doctor and she’ll ask why I’ve put on so much weight. My answer will be: Your profession has determined I’m too old to do anything else.
Brandon Mull, author of the Fablehaven series of books, wrote: “The curse of mortality. You spend the first portion of your life learning, growing stronger, more capable. And then, through no fault of your own, your body begins to fail. You regress. Strong limbs become feeble, keen senses grow dull, hardy constitutions deteriorate. Beauty withers. Organs quit. You remember yourself in your prime and wonder where that person went. As your wisdom and experience are peaking, your traitorous body becomes a prison.”
Now I’m beginning to understand what Mull means.
The thing with getting old is that while it appears from the outsider to come slowly -- they see our wrinkles appear, our running becoming slow walking -- to the aging individual it comes seemingly in an instant.
One day we have plenty of energy, the mind is alert, the memory unfailing and the body is behaving as it did many years, dare I say decades ago. The next day it’s a struggle to get out of bed, painlessly.
George Bernard Shaw may believe his quote: “We don’t stop playing because we get old. We get old because we stop playing.” But he’s wrong.
I stopped playing hockey several years ago because my feet were in constant agony every time I laced up the skates and stepped on the ice. I stopped running years ago after developing plantar fasciitis that made walking, never mind running, too painful to continue.
Sorry George, but we do stop playing because our bodies get old and tired.
Still, I never thought of myself as “old” until this summer, like the so-true Toby Keith lyrics:
Now my body says, “You can’t do this boy.”
But my pride says, “Oh yes you can.”
Except now even my pride had succumbed to reality. Until this week when I heard Keith’s new song and his explanation for writing the lyrics. He was talking to Clint Eastwood and asked the 93-year-old actor that dumb question people ask old folks: what’s your secret to longevity?
Easy, replied Eastwood: Don’t let the old man in.
Fight back, keep the mind and body active and don’t let others influence your decision. As someone else asked: how old would you be if you didn’t know your birthdate?
So yes I am old, the body is tired and sore, and the medical profession won’t help. But I’m buying into Clint’s way of thinking. I’ll let my mind try to convince my body that it’s still only 50 and we’ll continue to battle on against the raging elements of old age. Go away old man, I’m not ready to let you in just yet.
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