Becoming an older parent, while gratifying, is downright scary. We married when I turned 45 years old, and she was not. Like any G-d fearing, country-loving man, I married a younger woman – an intelligent, loving woman who wanted children, with me no less.
We were fortunate. While having children wasn’t easy, it wasn’t impossible. We faced difficulties, tragedies that tested our love, and had two lovely children thirteen months apart.
I do not write of our success to make you feel jealous, unhappy or sad or awful. I am writing to tell you of the fear I have right now about being an older parent, while writing to you from the emergency room of our local hospital.
If you’ve read my work before, you’ll know I’m crass, sarcastic and annoying. I, however, and unlike my wife, think I’m funny. I tell anyone who asks as well as those who don’t, that my children will be changing my diapers by the time they graduate from college.
In 20 years, G-d willing, as Leon Raines-Lambe, my grandfather used to say, I’ll be 74. I’m having issues now, I never, ever dreamed of.
I’m not having heart troubles, but my cholesterol has never been fabulous, my sinuses more clogged then the bridges going into New York City and my knees? My knees just don’t. GERD, Sleep Apnea, Restless Leg Syndrome. What the Hell!
My father had a bad heart. His mother had a bad heart. His father had a bad heart. I learned CPR. I used to be able to get down on my hands and knees and do compressions.
Last recertification, I spent more time trying to get to the dummy on the ground then actually practicing my compressions. I twisted and turned and tried contorting myself to get down to that damn mannequin. Couldn’t do it. If you’re planning on having a cardiac arrest and want me to help you, please hop up on a table before collapsing.
Like my mother, who is now 79 years old, we can get down to the ground to play with the kids. Getting up is another matter.
Our lives, stressful in general, have become more stressful as we plan an addition for our home. We’re moving a block away while the work is being done. I’m moving stuff every day. Yesterday, I had a reaction by not taking a drug I had been taking, but shouldn’t have been taking for the past three years. I swelled up and looked like Homer Simpson…DOH!
Emergency room two days ago.
So yesterday, they put me on steroids and lo and behold, now I can’t catch my breath. Moving a box ten feet leaves me short of breath and sore. Cause and effect is not clear. Therefore, solutions if possible, also aren’t clear. And, it’s hard to type with an oxygen monitor on your finger.
Let’s not even go into how I faint at needles and nearly flipped when they want to add the IV in. Ativan, the anxiety drug, is kicking in right now making it even harder to write. You know, that Thing they put it in. Lost the word.
How can I teach my daughter to dance or my son to play ball? I have enough problems trying to be active and fun at 54. I want to be an active, involved father – something I haven’t been really good at so far.
My wife remembers the names and faces of the kids, the parents, even the in-laws. She knows the teachers names. I’m happy to find my wallet or the top of my desk. I’m happy to remember to pick up a child at the right time and place.
This visit just makes it more visceral. I’m not ready to give up the ghost, but my body seems to have other ideas.
Fear can be a motivator as well as a stressor. I am going to channel this experience into something positive, as long as they let me the heck out of this damn beddddddd. Damn Ativan.
I’ll change my own diapers.