The art of getting used to it
The Rust’s go-to readership demographic rapidly becoming polarised around ‘senior citizenship’ status, it is perhaps only natural that occasionally we concentrate upon subjects and obsessions that tend to occupy us oldies.
Today I noticed a report by Ben Spencer, medical correspondent of the Daily Mail, whilst touring the newspaper websites that took my eye – see here – DAILY MAIL
A quick recap for those who are currently away on an oldies’ sea cruise and/or have already dozed off:
Then, secondly, in the face of sustained criticisms from all sides, within four days Mrs May acted to stem this disaster by doing a complete U-turn and announcing that in fact there would be a cap – without apparently having any idea what that might be – whilst going out in public (as all second-rate politicians would do) to steadfastly deny that this move was a U-turn … when everybody already knew it was one … because she didn’t want to admit she had made a mistake and thereby look an idiot.
Whereupon, of course, she looked an even bigger idiot – and a liar to boot.
Being sixty-five myself, whilst retaining something of a love-hate relationship with the process of growing old, I also seem to have arrived at a relative state of ease or karma-acceptance.
I was saying only the other day that it was about the age of sixty that I first noticed in myself what I’d describe as a definite sign-post on the ageing road.
I wasn’t here talking about the increasing number of aches, pains and general ‘first thing in the morning’ stiffness – or indeed that which inevitably sneaked up on me of an evening when I was sitting at home in front of the TV, most often after playing a round of golf, but would then miraculously ‘disappear’ by the morning.
Rather I was referring to the growing realisation over a number of weeks that – first thing in the morning – I could no longer step into my underpants without simultaneously holding myself steady by leaning on (or using) a wardrobe, cupboard or arm chair armrest.
In short, my innate sense of balance – which hitherto I had been deploying without any conscious thought for about fifty-six years – was knackered.
It was about the same time that I first noticed that bending down to put on my socks was becoming a bit more of a task than it had been in my days of yore.
Within a year, certainly when it came to my right foot, the process had become a case of leaning over as per normal, extending the chosen sock as far as I could towards the foot … and then making a lobbed attempt to ‘lasso’ it over the toes. If successful, say after two or three attempts, I would then ‘work’ the sock back up the foot and hey presto, the ‘show’ was back on the road!
The increasing difficulties in getting into a position where I could tie my own shoelaces was another signpost on this tortuous journey. I used to get round it, of course, by announcing to anyone who would listen that the reason I had begun buying non-shoelace footware (whether pull-on or velcro-strip secured) was purely because I hated shoelaces … not because I couldn’t do the blighters up.
(Regular followers of my posts will know that most or all of the above were precursors to my diagnosis of an arthritic hip and then – nearly three years later – my first hip replacement operation. I say ‘first’ hip replacement because, when going back to see my surgeon for my sign-off appointment five months ago, he pointed out that in due course I’d need the other one doing as well).
Getting clumsier and being less able to read the small-print (or indeed anything) have been other bell-weathers for me.
All the above registered, and turning to the brighter side of things, I am neverthelesss mightily impressed by the attentions of our sometimes-maligned NHS.
Never mind the other examples proving that Big Brother is watching me, e.g. once I had reached the age of fifty I began receiving unsolicited invitations to get quotes from Saga and other ‘old age specific’ insurance companies and/or private health care organisations who had somehow found out my name, age and address, the Government and/or the good old NHS have been pretty efficient in offering me free testings for various (presumably age-related) diseases or conditions.
Apart from annual trips to see the nurse at my local GP surgery to have my blood and blood pressure taken (apparently the medics can pick up virtually any and everything you might generally have going wrong from these), I have also been for a number of specific exams or screenings.
One of the first was some sort of prostate exam undertaken by a rather attractive young Asian GP doctor before which, upon being asked, I had blithely consented to have not only video’d for training purposes but also watched live by two what-I-supposed-at-the-time were either interns from the local hospital or alternatively two passers-by who happened to have paid for tickets. I don’t know whether said clip was one of those items of data sadly lost as a result of the recent NHS hacking crisis or not, but if it wasn’t then that would surely be one item worth finding just for the comedic value.
Ali and Bonavena
Early next month I shall be submitting myself to another specific ‘screening’ exam.
Going back into the depths of time I can fondly remember a hard-fought Muhammad Ali bout with either George Chuvalo or Oscar Bonavena after which the great man told reporters of his respect for his vanquished opponent, adding: “He had muscles in places where I don’t even have places”.
Rather in the same vein, as I type I have zero knowledge of what an ‘Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm’ is, let alone whether I possess one. Or should that be ‘the capacity to have one’?
But that’s what I’m going to be screened for, anyway.
I don’t know how others of my age and disposition regard such things, but I find this benevolent general concern of the state (and/or its organs) for my personal welfare rather comforting.
