The Challenges of Aging
To say I hate young people because of their youth would make me sound too much like Mark Twain, who stated that “Youth is wasted on the Young.” Exercising, while being surrounded by healthy twenty-year-old’s, fit bodies, bouncing pony tails and muscular bodies, not even old enough to be part of generation X, and me a bona fide baby boomer, is a humbling experience.
I have just been through a series of echo sound, stress tests, blood tests and have been given a multitude of drugs for migraine prevention, blood thinners, blood pressure. In fact, I am now on ten different prescriptions. I have had two heart surgeries, a stroke, and now a candidate for knee replacement surgery. I have been reminded about the importance of diet and exercise, and if I do what I’m told and don’t mess up, could be witness to the Earth going around the sun at least another 20 laps. Despite all of that I still feel very healthy for my age and of this world.
Therefore, I find myself as an Alumni (class of 75) at the Laurier gym having played squash, during which my wife and I did all we could to hit the ball directly to each other in order to avoid needless and pointless running for mere ball retrieval. Having completed a cardio in the squash court we did some weights where in whispered tones shared our views that students are really far too young for their own good and this rap music, they play in the gym does not remotely compare to the vintage quality of classic rock.
Trying to do some stretches on a thin mat on the hardwood floor beside someone doing one armed pushups and another with her leg wrapped around her neck in a yoga pose is intimidating. I was trying in a vain attempt to touch my toes which realistically with my long legs has become an increasingly difficult skill set to master. Despite our apparent handicaps no one stared, laughed or told us to leave. These young people were, despite their vigor, very polite.
We feel more at ease and in our depth while going to the Waterloo Rec Centre where we can walk aimlessly around a track located above the hockey arena. This is a very popular and therapeutic pass time as many people walk, jog or run as hockey, at various skill levels, is played out on the ice surface below. People with canes and walkers, young people on the outside lanes practicing track, all gather in the same time space continuum.
My wife and I can walk a lap in just under four minutes, just like Roger Bannister. We pump our arms and pass clumps of geriatric men in baggy pants, we round the corner on the outside passing a lady with her walker and enter the straight only to be passed by three young mothers pushing their infants in jogging strollers. We know our limitations. We are no match for these formidable moms. We slow to a more relaxed pace.
At home I work out on our rowing and step machines and do palates, badly. We walk the neighborhood, while peering through neighbors’ windows like night stalkers in our constant quest to stay fit. My theory is to just keep moving.
When I am at a certain age, I find much of my life revolves around doctor’s appointments, specialists, hospital visits, prescription counters and the ever-popular blood lab where I queue. Get my OHIP card at the ready. I think more optimistically what is life without your health. I look at the people around me young, middle aged and old but mainly like me, older. Everyone here for a test and quite concerned about their health. Some, in one row, for x-rays and imaging, and my row for blood.
I sit on a beige plastic chair and glance at the dirty floor, and observe the constant stream of people who walk and shuffle in and out. An obese man on a cane, an obese woman with a walker, a mother with an infant in for imaging, an Old Order Mennonite woman wearing a winter cape leans against the wall, perhaps unwilling to commit to the process, a teenager wearing winter inappropriate clothing.
As I wait, I am surprised by the number of people who have expired OHIP cards and who in turn are surprised that the cards have expired.
I was told on my last visit that I could review my results online and also book appointments online to avoid waits. I soon realized two things. One, in reviewing my results apparently, I lacked the necessary medical degree to make any sense of the results. Two: it was useless making a reservation for an appointment as everything was booked weeks in advanced.
I am directed to cubicle #5. Asked to hang my coat roll up my sleeve and wait. I’m hoping I will not get an infection, that the staff is well trained, the needles are clean...but then I stop and realize the mental spiral I am on.
The nurse is fast and efficient. I answer the questions correctly concerning, my name and by birth date. The blue rubber band wrapped around my upper arm helps pop my veins and arteries. The needle goes in, the blood out. I am then given a cup for a urine sample and directed towards the washroom.
Have you ever had to do this and really had no urgency, desire or ability at the moment to pee into a thimble sized container? The directions on the cup and repeated on the washroom wall indicate that I should begin filling the “cup” midstream. Not sure what that actually means, I’m afraid that if I waste any sample, I won’t be able to fill the quota. Pressure!
Is their shame in under achieving at this stage. I think magical thoughts of swimming pools, sprinklers and long road trips. Eventually, I proudly hold my warm sample up to the flickering fluorescent lights. Fearful now of spillage and waste of the valuable contents I cap the cup and with as much clandestine subterfuge as I can muster place it in the metal container outside the washroom door and set it down besides seven similar containers. It shimmers amber in the fluorescent glow of the ceiling lights. I leave for my next medical appointment.
