Being old is simply awful …or is it?

“One never knows, do one.” — Fats Waller 

Other than outliving dear family members and cherished longtime friends and dogs, the worst things about being old are the medical maladies that attack when you aren’t looking.

About two years ago my adorable 1957 bride lapsed into dementia. Today she remembers nothing of our storybook 67 wedded years or its romance-on-steroids 1956 prelude, zooming top-down in a Brit roadster up and down Pacific Coast Highway “from Berkeley to Carmel,” to Lake Arrowhead, to sports car races in Palm Springs, Santa Barbara and other sunny Shangri-Las before they were overrun by tourists like us. She hasn't the foggiest remembrance of our mid-'50s Block Island wedding or bohemian Greenwich Village apartment in NYC, or summer vacations in tents and canoes on a pristine Vermont wilderness lake. Or summers with dearest friends, long gone, at their waterfront Cape Cod cottage. Or exploring pueblo blancos en España and gorging on paella on a Mediterranean beach with hog farmer neighbor pals from rural Illinois, where we lived twice.  

Jacquelynn cannot remember her parents, her siblings, or starting her own precious family. Or happy decades of tennis; or racing sunfish sailboats on Cold Spring Harbor when home was Great Gatsbyville, Long Island; or sailing with pals on the Mississippi. If one of our three senior citizen kids mentions memorable family sailing adventures in the Caribbean, my mate nods courteously yet remembers nothing. She sleeps all night and much of most days. She can't cook or shower or dress herself. Or recall losing her dad and young brothers, 9 and 11, in a 1963 Bermuda Triangle storm when their aged wooden schooner splintered and sank.  

“So the proverbial and befuddled glass half full or half empty is not just half empty, but dry as a bone?” 

Not quite. “Mumsie” (to family) has never been happier. For starters, having dementia means you probably don't know it. She roars with laughter at Seinfeld TV reruns even though she doesn't know what they're all shouting about. She spends hours trimming and conversing with wilting roses from bouquets received weekly. When the dishwasher signals "done," the silverware cage is placed in front of her and she meticulously separates, then repeatedly re-separates the utensils, muttering happily to each fork, knife and spoon. She doesn’t know where the washing/drying machines are but when presented with a stack of finished laundry she folds each item with the care given a baby bird who fell from the nest. Speaking of which, while being chauffeured around South Sandpoint, Mumsie joyfully counts the same bird nests along tree-lined streets over and over in the belief that all have been constructed overnight. 

We have for many years had two cuddly but different-looking cats; gangly Maestro and squat Bootsie. Bootsie worshipped Mumsie, and vice versa. When Bootsie recently stopped eating and then vanished, as cats often do when ready to toss in the towel, Mumsie, without missing a beat, simply assumed Maestro is Bootsie. 

Perhaps most importantly, my mate loves being social and is often amusingly so. Hard of hearing, her humor is unintentional. At the infamous downtown Tango Table to which she often accompanies me for breakfast camaraderie with our pals, someone might say, "Then some bird flew up to the perch." She will ask, in total earnestness, "Did you say "then some turd threw up in church?" And hysterical colleagues almost tumble from their chairs. Things at our house, as at Tango, are even happier when my bride is involved. And so is she. 

But let's be fair. Being older if not wiser, I too have issues deserving of recognition. About the time Mumsie sank into dementia, my kidneys, probably feeling ignored, up and quit. Subsequently, to stay alive I started thrice-weekly dialysis treatments; three to four hours per visit, enmeshed in one of 12 constantly rubbed and scrubbed chairs connected to a repeatedly purified blood-cleansing computer with super-size needles, tubes, bandages and sometimes a bit of blood. But first requiring surgically inserted catheters or fistulas in neck or arm (your choice). 

A spotless cleansing computer instead of kidneys? Yes, and a demanding one that endlessly squawks, screams, squeals, screeches, shrieks, beeps, burps, chirps, honks and hollers. How my kidney-less colleagues manage to spend their penance in peaceful slumber is an enigma. Most weary patients, perhaps grateful to have escaped a nagging spouse, bring blankets in preparation for a much-needed nap. Some show up in pajamas. They know what they’re doing because when I finish a treatment I can barely walk or talk until I sleep it off. 

Because kidneys are related to and dependent upon every other vessel, valve, vein, muscle, mineral, bone, artery, etc. the rigidly trained technicians and RNs who keep us alive in their businesslike white medical smocks and blue latex gloves (both changed a zillion times a day) pay constant attention to a legion of medical factors and tweak them minute by minute on the demanding, intimidating machines. Fluids and “dry weight” are priorities. As is blood pressure. Blood pressure enjoys such prestige in the dialysis social hierarchy that its own personal armband is attached to its own private arm — the one not punctured by big needles.  

“And so dialysis, you poor thing, is a torture chamber!” 

Well, first, let me tell you some cool things about being a little old man with crapped-out kidneys and a cane. Little old ladies compete to open the door for me at the liquor store, the drug store, the post office, the liquor store, the grocery store, Image Maker, the liquor store, the bank, DiLuna’s cafe, wherever. So do men, who often call me “sir.” If my cane slips from the grocery cart and clatters to the floor, fellow shoppers compete to retrieve it.  Also, as luck (and brilliant planning) would have it, loving family members who live next door mow our lawn, shovel snow, fix toilets, chop fire pit wood, plant and tend the garden, wheel trash and recycle barrels out to the curb and back weekly, dump the cat litter, watch over Mumsie when I’m not home, keep things humming at their house and ours. Even if we don’t play tennis, travel or have backyard horses or boats, nursing a margarita in our cozy patio while watching chickadees bitch at one another at the bird feeders is comfortable compensation. 

The secret to a joyful antique life is to slow down, scale back, and simplify. And if needed, join the collegiality at a dialysis clinic.  

“Excuse me?” 

The heartfelt gentleness, professionalism, wit and intelligence of technicians Allyssa, Ashley, Ashlyn, Kris, Elisa, Zoe and their talented “float” substitutes from Omak, Spokane, Boise, Moscow, etc., outweigh treatment discomforts. Because of their cheerful and care-giving spirit, one almost looks forward to the visit. (No, wait! That might be overly generous!) However, this doddering veteran of military, collegiate and corporate organizations, and of later non-profit and university boards, cannot recall a staff so disciplined, so gifted, so hard-working and so content with their task — which is saving lives. About 24 a day.  

The managing office RN where my life is prolonged sets by example the attitudes and skills of her technicians. For one thing, she knows the drill. “Been there, done that” before being kicked upstairs. For another, she’s a natural “tough love” leader. Moreover, she is very much liked by those she leads. In 30 years among corporate managers, I found that to be somewhat uncommon: I once ran a national corporate PR organization, and it was whispered that some members didn’t like me (what an absurd bit of malicious gossip!).

The task of a dialysis team is to keep patients healthy and happy.  Those I know, do so with assurance, passion and aplomb. Being old and ill among such care-giving talent isn’t so bad. Thanks in large measure to them, our cup runneth over.