There’s been a lot of issues come up lately with aging parents and grandparents. One set of parents is moving out of the house they’ve lived in for 38 years to downsize. Helping them sort through nearly four decades of life fodder isn’t nearly as exciting as the recent discovery of the remains of Queen Nefertiti in a secret room in King Tutankhamun’s tomb––though I have found some dead and petrified things.
The other parents have had three major surgeries between the two of them and, even after recovery, might not have enough functional joints combined to equal a whole person. A set of grandparents had to be moved into an assisted living facility after health issues ended their attempt to live independently until they both became centenarians, though they made it well into their nineties.
I now understand why certain Christian apostles opted to be “twinkled” and taken up to heaven when they reached age 72. Quality of life does seem to nosedive after that, unless you’re George Burns.
It’s been a lot to deal with, think about and worry over lately.
It’s made me very aware of my own mortality. Having my second kid graduate from high school this week and working on wedding plans for my oldest kid isn’t helping either. And I threw my back out the other day while doing my regular exercise regime, so I’ve been shuffling around like a granny and watching power lift chair infomercials with real interest.
Yikes! I don’t like or want any of this!
Age is a strange thing. When we’re young we make fun of it like it’s never going to happen to us, which is ridiculous because we all know age is progressive. We’re giddy over birthdays in our youth because each new age offers more privileges like driving, voting, and playing the Idaho lottery.
But as we grow up, why do we think we’ll never grow old?
In case you’ve never noticed, Oil of Olay commercials are carefully worded to guarantee their products will make you look younger, not be younger. There’s no magic elixir for that.
Whenever I say to my dad, “See you later,” he replies with the same adage, “I hope so. It’s better than the alternative.” He’s corny, but right.
You either grow old or croak. Those are the only options.
If you’re like my Dad, you prefer option one and try to siphon the life out of every moment you get. Even if your wife, children, grandchildren and numerous expert healthcare professionals plead with you to take it easy since your body could rival Wolverine in amounts of implanted metal.
The fact is old age and its trials will indeed come, if I don’t die first.
But with its struggles will also hopefully come the joys of grandchildren, senior discounts and a passion for buffets, which makes sense now since even the scriptures admit it’s a crap shoot after age 72 anyway, so if I make it and don’t get twinkled I’ll finally get to stop dieting and live my dream of eating whatever I want.
Maybe getting old won’t be so bad after all.