Ever since visiting my great grandmother in a nursing home when I was a kid, I’ve dreaded the physical decline, mental deterioration and lack of mobility that are, for most people, part of old age. Occasionally I’d imagine myself as elderly, and start to panic. To calm down, I’d have to remind myself that people don’t just ‘get old’. It happens over a lifetime, and I had many, many years to go before I needed to worry about it.
Then, abruptly, at age 34, I became elderly.
Sure, I don’t have excessive wrinkles, and aside from one skunk streak, my hair isn’t grey. But since I got sick, I’ve experienced all the aspects of being elderly I’ve always been afraid of. Consider my life now:
- I spend long stretches of time sitting quietly, staring into the middle distance
- I tire very easily and extremely
- I’ve lost all my muscle tone and am probably losing bone density too; some days even the hairdryer is too heavy for me
- I sometimes needs help walking
- People suggest I get a wheelchair
- My main occupation is going to doctor appointments
- I eat a lot of oatmeal (to be honest, I always ate a lot of oatmeal)
- I can’t remember conversations I had two minutes ago
- There’s a guy whose entire job seems to be wandering around outside my windows with a leafblower, and he is my nemesis
- I tell long, rambling stories, and get confused in the middle of them
- I have falls
The first time I fell was outside the infectious disease specialist’s office. I’d gone to sit on a bench because I was exhausted, as usual. When I tried to stand up, my brain noted that my feet were stuck under the bench. Then it noted that I was off balance, and heading quickly toward the ground.
My brain shuffled through the process it needed to execute to right itself. Clearly, something had to happen with my feet, but my brain was baffled as to which foot to move first, and how. It was still sorting through options – right foot forward? Left knee bent? – as my hip and forearm smashed into the concrete.
I suppose if I were truly elderly, my hip would have broken. Still, this was little consolation as I lay on the ground, confused about what had happened. A crowd of concerned onlookers rushed over to ask if I was okay and help me up, and I wished so, so much that on that particular Tuesday at noon, I could just be at my job like a normal, healthy 34-year-old.
I did go to work after that, despite the abundant evidence that I did not have the mental or physical capacity for productivity. My boss watched as I sat at my desk, putting bandaids on my scraped elbow, and then she sent me home, where I sat quietly, staring into the middle distance, and wondering if I would have any visitors that week.