There are two primary ways that a man is inducted into the club that we will hereto refer as “The Old Man's Club”. It is an ignominious title that is met with revulsion and regret by the man being received. Unfortunately, once you have been inducted , you remain forever a member…
The primary way that men are introduced into this club is that they wake up one morning and find that they are dead. The indicators are quite common. You can no longer move your body. You have stopped breathing. Your skin has a light blue tint to it and it's cold and clammy to the touch. Your eyes have a fixed glaze: they are staring at the ceiling, yet they see nothing. Everyone else in the house is running around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off. Unlike your calm and collected demeanor, they are frantic, and their collective pulses are racing to the moon. Usually, you find it difficult to understand what all the fuss is about.
The other less common indicator that you have been received into this club is a singular act usually predicated by the earth ceasing to revolve around on its axis for a second or two. This was my unfortunate signal a day or two ago.
This past year, the year I turned 75, has been noteworthy as the-biggest-piece-of-shit-year in my life. Heralded in by the surgery of all the surgeries, I was thrust into a vortex of negative energy, the likes of which I have never experienced before. I survived. Unfortunately, the events surrounding this medical emergency have left my brain tattooed.
I knew this was coming. Events unfolded along the last couple of years that have left an indelible mark on the high energy level that I have lived at for such a long time. The list of things that I can no longer do is longer, much longer, than the list of things that I can continue doing. Every single one of the items on this list I miss because I have been doing them for anywhere from 20 to 40 years, con mucho gusto.
Fortunately, I have adapted to this new lifestyle. It is by the grace of God and only by the grace of God that I am able to get up each morning with something of a smile on my face and greet the day pleasantly. I won't bore you with the list of things that I can no longer do. I am grateful that I can continue to take photographs, and I am doing that at a level of energy equivalent to a rocket lifting off from planet earth on its way into outer space. I thank God for this multiple times every day. I take nothing for granted. I am grateful for the smallest of favors that He renders upon me.
30 years of being tossed around on the Dojo (karate) floor like a rag doll has left me with indelible spinal injuries that require from moderate to major surgeries every couple of years. The problem with repairing a spinal disc is that it places immense strain on the disk above it -- eventually tearing it loose. You wake up one morning slapped in the face by Mother Nature and keenly aware of the blatantly obvious fact that something is really fucking wrong with your back.
I told my back to take a number. At this point it was a little lower on down the totem pole and would have to be dealt with sometime in the indeterminate future. How absolutely wrong I was about that…
The surgery earlier in the year unfortunately amplified other issues, and they were all fighting for first place. I had gotten to the point where I could no longer drag my leg inconspicuously when I tried to walk in public.
I had to bring a cane with me. It might as well have been a pulsating, flashing light. Neither of my hands was suitable for holding the cane and supporting my body -- which left me in a very precarious position. As an old friend once told me “We do the best we can with what we have.” I ignored the pain pulsating through each finger as best as I could. A secret medicine, one which has gained great attention in the press recently, was my temporary cure for the nerve pain that racked my body. Fortunately, I use a very low dose of it under the strict care of a wonderful doctor. I have been assured by numerous health professionals that I have nothing to be concerned with. It is a comfort.
I had to go to Walmart -- which is not a store I enjoy walking around in. Our coffee maker had given up the ghost several hours earlier and ordering one from Amazon was out of the question since it would take two days to reach our doorstep.
I'm not sure which is worse: going a day without coffee or a day without Oxycodone. Phyllis and I both knew we were incapable of surviving the former, and I'm absolutely certain that had we appeared at the emergency room explaining that we did not get our morning cup of coffee, the doctors would have done everything in their power to see that we were cared for in an appropriate and respectful manner.
I did not stop for a shopping cart because I had no idea whether or not I could even find a coffee maker let alone one that would meet our high and rigorous demands. Even though I had my cane with me – and I was dragging my body on my one good hand (and I use the word ‘good’, very loosely), I had no idea what I would do if I actually found an acceptable coffee maker. It had been so long since I had been in a store to purchase anything, I had forgotten the rigorous ritual that applies to shopping.
By the grace of God, I actually found the brand and model that we had used for many years -- there were two on the shelf in front of me. I had forgotten how big and cumbersome the box was, and how heavy it was with respect to my ability to carry such a stealthy object. I tried wrapping my right arm around the box and pushing it tightly into my shoulder. Naturally, this sent spasms of pain from my fingers to my wrist to my forearm to my shoulder to my neck down my back and to my favorite leg which hated me with a passion.
As I took my first step I realized immediately that there would not be a second one. Like a small, wounded animal waiting impatiently to be devoured by a much larger predator, I stood helplessly, rotating my head on my shoulders, looking for help. When I say by the Grace of God, i mean by the Grace of God. The relationship I have with our Lord is quite magnificent and I am absolutely positive that I could not survive another second without his help. An employee wandered by and I found a smile somewhere deep inside myself and hoisted it out like a flag on a sinking ship. He saw my situation and agreed immediately to get me a cart.
Enlisting the aid of another employee, he waited while his teammate procured the cart. He held my coffee maker so that I could rest as best as I could. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when employee number 2 came with the cart. It was one of the units that was electrically motivated while you sit in it and drive yourself around. It was at this moment, at this precise instant in time in the history of my life that I realized I had been nominated into the “Hey, Old Man!” club. I did not feel embarrassed. I felt relieved, because it was the appropriate solution to my problem at this moment.
What happened next, however, could have been fodder for a good comedy movie. If you have never driven one of these little gizmos, you are in for quite a surprise. They are as close to a Formula One racing car as you can get inside the walls of a Walmart. They literally turn on a dime -- very quickly and accelerate rapidly due to their light weight and strong electric motor.
Learning to navigate, especially in an area full of other shoppers moving in every imaginable direction simultaneously brought a sweat to my brow that I could not control. While you have normal bicycle style handlebars to hold on to, the actual movement of the device is made by pressing on an 1/8th inch thick piece of steel rod about 6 to 8 inches long. You can press on it with either hand and it will take you forward or backward, exceptionally fast.
Traversing the checkout aisle without running down the people in front or behind me, or even in the next row, was a formidable task. Focusing on my steering skills and trying to actually check out at the same time proved that I really could not walk and chew gum simultaneously. Somehow, I managed to complete the transaction, put the coffee maker in the cage area in front of the handlebars and drive out of the store.
Now was the real problem. I was sitting about two feet lower than I normally walk so I could not find my car no matter how hard I looked. I had two choices: either abandon the cart and try once again to walk and support myself with the cane, or I could weave up and down every aisle of the cars until I found mine. I chose the latter and navigating among the cars was exceptionally stressful because they could not see me as I moved around the lot.
So here I am, invisible, dying for a Xanax, or maybe just dying. I tried to formulate a plan to make it easier to find my car, but although I was able to put this little cart into gear, I could not do the same with my brain, no matter how hard I tried. The stress was multiplying every 5 or 10 seconds, and I thought it would be a great relief if my head just exploded…
After what felt like a week or two in extremely cold weather, my car found me -- I was certainly in no condition to find it. I really wanted to throw a party in the parking lot, right then and there -- but I wasn't sure anyone would understand my reason for doing so, so I quietly abandoned my little electric friend, opened the trunk, carefully put the coffee maker inside, and jumped into the driver's seat.
I took my first breath in what seemed like ages, and my body relaxed. I actually almost passed out, but I knew I had to make it home, if for no other reason than to show Phyllis that we had a new coffee maker. We were saved.
If some yokel on the street yells “Hey Old Man!” in a derisive and hostile manner to get my attention, I will not be angry. I earned my place in this new club. I am a respected member. And I fully understand that the pain I experience on a daily basis is just a very small reminder that I did not gain my position in this club in the other manner.
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