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Not for Granted

The indoor tennis season has started and the guys on the next court are cracking the ball back and forth over the net – the ball is sizzling!

Not so much on our court.

Bernie, wearing his signature Hawaiian shirt, is having trouble with his knee. He stands helpless as balls are returned just out of his reach. David, once the intercollegiate tennis champ of New York City, has adjusted his game after surgeries on both knees and shoulders. I have missed the entire outdoor season, due to a shoulder injury, and cannot find a serve to save my life. The three of us are like Blinkin’, Dinkin’, and Plod out there. Only Larry, our fourth player, is energized, having just come back from trout fishing in the Adirondacks. Parenthetically, I was really looking forward to trying out my new service motion, timed to Steely Dan’s Babylon Sisters. Instead, I’m hearing Joni Mitchell sing ‘you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone”.

The culmination of our combined 200 years of tennis experience resulted in a twelve-shot rally at the net. Each of us, awkward and unbalanced, can’t get a whole racquet on the ball, but we manage to return each shot just barely over the net. Each reply is worse that the previous shot, but the rally continues until Larry misses a wild overhead blooped over his head.

At the end of the point, we all look at one another in amazement. No one knows what to say. It’s like an out-of-body experience. David finally says: “that was the worst point ever played in the history of tennis” and breaks down in laughter. We all join him. It is humiliating, but funny, that we have been brought so low. It’s also emblematic: we will play better next week, but today was a marker of a measured decline of skills.

Sometimes life is the art of a managed retreat. I love tennis, but realize my best playing days are in the rearview mirror. However, it makes me so happy that I’ve continued to dodge the final silver bullet that would take tennis away as an option. I don’t take it for granted that I can walk onto the court with my friends next month – or even next week. This conclusion heightens my enjoyment of any opportunity to send a yellow, fuzzy ball soaring over a greedy, green net. I won’t quit, even though I’ve passed the top of my form.

Even so, before the end of play, I had managed to thwack myself in the face with my own racquet, hurt my foot, and aggravate my shoulder. Hobbling home with bruised eye, Linda said: “Are you sure you were playing tennis?” No, I’m not so sure I was. I think I was simply trying to stay alive. It just happened to be on a tennis court.

Do you have a similar story?

Here’s a stanza from Edgar Guest’s Don’t Quit (allpoetry.com), which seems appropriate:

“When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
when the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
when the funds are low and the debts are high,
and you want to smile but you have to sigh,
when care is pressing you down a bit – rest if you must, but don’t you quit.”

Too Close to Home

I went for my 6 month check up with my doctor in July. When I got there, they weighed me, took my blood pressure, checked all my blood work and then did the usual stuff….tapping on my chest and back, listening to my heart, all the usual stuff. Everything seemed good! Then he always sits opposite me, puts his computer down and asks if I have anything I want to tell him, any complaints, aches and pains or anything I want to ask him. My doctor is a young guy probably close to 50 years old and I have been seeing him for the last ten years regularly. He followed his usual routine and we sat down and talked. He asked if there was anything I wanted to ask and in my usually snide manner I said ,” I am 78 years old. What kind of shape am I in?” expecting to hear that I have the usual aches and pains and usual movement problems, urination problems and all that stuff. Instead, he got snarky with me and said,”Well, let me just say that at your age if you were a machine, we would have replaced all your parts by now!” I was at a loss for words but mustered up just enough strength to say, “No tip for you this visit.” That is kind of what our relationship has been like since we met.

I completely empathized with Wally’s tennis experiences. I have had many of the same problems that he and his fellow tennis players experienced. Wally had shoulder problems and was concerned about his serve, someone else had knee problems, another had trouble holding the racket, and another had difficulty running around the court. I empathized with all of them. I felt badly for them all experiencing these hardships and then I was overcome with despair. It took Wally and three of his tennis buddies to experience all of those things which I experience all at once every day. When did this happen? I moved into my house almost ten years ago after carefully searching for a house I could manage alone. Back then I could mow the lawn, shovel the sidewalks and driveway, use tools to facilitate work that had to be done. No problem, in fact it was challenging living alone for the first time in my life, and I was up for the task. Unlike Wally’s activities my athleticism over the years has come down to the sport of taking the garbage out. Taking the garbage out requires a tight grasp of the plastic garbage bag that is required to be pulled out of the can in the kitchen and deposited into the proper receptacle. No problem, an easy task. Grab the bag in one hand, other hand filled with recycling, two doors to open before arriving at the large garbage tub on wheels resting by the garage door. This used to be done with little effort and great skill. After breezing through the two doors which easily unlocked and opened using the recycling hand and with the help of my elbow, out to the garage and with my right foot I would flip the lid open and with an amazing shot from 5 or so feet away deposit the garbage bag right into that sucker. That was how I used to do it. Today however the procedure has evolved. The first challenge is to remove the large plastic trash bag from the kitchen can without snagging the bag in such a way as to cause the messiest of garbage to come spilling out while the right hand clumsily dropped the items to be recycled.. Task one now is to retrieve all that emptied out of my arms and bag while fighting to get across the kitchen floor without leaving a trail of coffee grounds across the kitchen. Then the doors…….an immense task to master. If I am wearing the right shirt with some texture, I can cradle the knob into the crook of my elbow and twist it just enough to unlatch the little thingy that goes into the hole in the door frame. Once outside I take a sigh of relief and go to open the top of the can with my arthritic hand forgetting the pain caused when my wrists even twist a little. I should learn some new curse words because the old ones are highly ineffective. That is just one of the sports I participate in! I will spare you the details of climbing up the cellar stairs with a load of clean clothes in a basket. Having to hold the laundry basket with my left hand while at the same time using the handrail because about halfway up the stairs my right knee stops supporting me and as I discovered, without the use of the handrail the basket, clothes and I go tumbling down and the challenge to get up again is unbearable. You get the idea. Having a constant stiff neck from an old volleyball injury, I must always be aware not to put myself in any position where I have to turn my head any further than a 45-degree angle without the shooting pain it calls up. Anyway, you get the idea.

I remember as a young adult when visiting home for the holidays I used to look around at the collection of old Italians sitting around a big table with everyone shouting at each other, not angrily but just to be heard. I remember seeing my Aunt Eleanor’s hands and the distorted shape of her middle finger and pointer. Occasionally I would see her rub that hand right after delivering a platter in the middle of the table with whatever delicacy she created. By that time, my dad had developed a little limp because he was constantly fighting plantar fasciitis. My uncle was always rubbing his left elbow which we could hear crack if the shouting had died down momentarily. I looked around the table and remember thinking if that ever happened to me, please shoot me and put me out of my misery. Now, it is a little too close to home.

And Yet I Continue

Wal provides a clear and relatable description of our journey into the world of the aged. Using his wisdom developed over the years of making sense of life, he turns the frustration of diminished physical skills into a moment of shared laughter and acceptance. And he closes with that life sustaining attitude of gratitude: the deep motivating appreciation that he can still enjoy the gift of playing. Unsaid but understood, is that being with friends, getting exercise, competing, and pushing himself to do his best, is what tennis is about. How well he does or used to do, is not the reason he signed up.

In the first year we began our blog, we wrote about Don Miquel’s Book, The Four Agreements. The last agreement was to always do your best recognizing that your best can and will vary from day to day based on any number of prevailing conditions. It has occurred to me only recently that age, more and more, has become a huge factor. None-the-less, practicing this belief helps me continue to enjoy my life as fully as ever because it allows a perspective that doesn’t compare and fosters a compassion for gratitude.

Wal asks if we have any similar stories to tell. Mine is from a couple of years ago which, because time seems to have accelerated beyond the speed of light, seems like yesterday.

My grandson, Ben and I, were across the street from his house at the ball field having a catch with one of his friends. Shortly, several of his neighbors joined us. Our game of catch soon evolved into a mini version of a baseball game. We took turns hitting, running the bases, and fielding. After about twenty minutes of play my heart rate was off the charts and I began to wonder if, despite having a relatively healthy heart, trying to keep up with these teens was going to be the last thing I ever did. Accepting that fact that I had exceeded my capacity to breathe without gasping, I reluctantly admitted to these young bucks that Pop Pop needed to sit out for a bit. After the game in the quiet of Ben’s house, he looked over at me and delivered his analysis of my skills. “You can hit the ball pretty far, Pop Pop, but you’re not a very good runner.”

While I was briefly saddened that I was likely no longer the able-bodied grandpa he had frequently admired I quickly realized that in the latter part of my 70’s I was still able to spend some time actively playing on a ball field with Ben and his friends. I was and still am deeply grateful for that day.

“In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” – Abraham Lincoln

Tower of Song

Hen suggested the topic of diminishment — particularly of physical decline. We wrote about a similar sense of aging in George’s earlier post The Golden Years. However, this topic is a bit more pointed. George ended that post with a poem that fits the bill – about the inevitable crankiness of the body… or as Leonard Cohen sang: “I ache in the places where I used to play”.

Ending on a poem was a nice touch in The Golden Years, George. I drift toward poetry when confronting life issues. Somehow poets seem to capture large thoughts with few words. Three poems catch my fancy in this regard:

1. Dylan Thomas’ Don’t Go Gentle into that Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night… (and further verses)

Dylan Thomas kicks it up a notch! Some years ago, this was my anthem. Thomas not only wants to resist the acceptance of diminished ability, he wants to fuel his energy with anger. Go out with a flair! In addition, this poem conjers up the lament that one feels not just at physical decline, but the accompanying despair that life is too short and accomplishments too meager to meet the first rank. Thomas wrote this lyrical poem for his father, but he himself raged so at the loss of youth that he drank himself to death at age 39. Thomas spent his energy rubbing against the grain. He never came to peaceful terms with the inevitable arc of life.

2. Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Ulysses

…Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

This is the stoic solution – head down, keep moving forward. Marcus Aurelius would have endorsed this sentiment. If you ever followed Rumpole of the Bailey, that aging barrister used to quote these verses to pump himself up to face difficult circumstances. The context of the poem chronicles poor Ulysses, forced to wander for many years and fight battle after battle, who finally makes his way home and finds he has to fight one last battle to reclaim his household. It’s a call to marshal one’s infirmities and soldier on. However, I’m not sure that it encourages a person to find new solutions, but rather to make good use of what you still possess – work with what you’ve got.

3. Emily Dickenson’s We Grow Accustomed to the Dark

…The Bravest – grope a little –and sometimes hit a Tree

Directly in the Forehead –

But as they learn to see –

Either the Darkness alters –

Or something in the sight

Adjusts itself to Midnight –

And Life steps almost straight

I find this portrayal by Emily Dickenson most apt, most human. My friend Lee recently pointed out that we are bound energy… energy can’t be destroyed, but it can be transformed. As our physical presence transforms over time, we learn to adapt. We find a way. Senses and abilities previously dormant begin to bloom. We compensate. And perhaps we better appreciate the skills still remaining in our tool bag.

Oh – so why is this post entitled Tower of Song? Well, it’s a song by Leonard Cohen. I consider him more of a poet than a performer. If you chance to listen to this wistful song, it might touch a chord. I’m pretty sure that Cohen was contemplating something other than a jukebox. Perhaps eventually some remnant of our energy will reside in a Tower of Song.

Accepting My Diminshed State

Wal’s invitation to reflect on diminishment as we age provides, as one might expect, a range of perspectives. And offering it through poetry and song only enhances the number of interpretations.

Refusing to go quietly into the night reminds me of my friend Bill who once told me that when his time comes, he wants to be completely used up, having lived fully, without compromise, until there was no more left to give. I get that, I too, fueled by a youthful spirit and sense of adventure, welcome the adrenalin rush when I can. But influenced by life’s experiences and the ever-increasing limitations of the body, they are less spontaneous and more measured. As Wal, continues in his post, the wisdom of working with what we still have and consciously honing skills we may have barely acknowledged allows us to adapt to our new normal and still live fully.

For me, it’s about acceptance. Not acceptance of defeat. Acceptance of what I can still do, with or without difficulty, and recognizing when it’s worth it and when it’s not. Acceptance that it’s time to shift my tempo, or ask for help, or be more forgiving (of my limitations.) Acceptance that it may be time to let go and revel in the joy of watching someone else dance wildly into the night. So easily said, so challenging to practice.

I came across the two following poems that represent many of my feelings. I also liked I Still Matter, by Pat A. Fleming but didn’t include it in this post.

The Little Boy And The Old Man by Shel Siverstein

Said the little boy, sometimes I drop my spoon.
Said the little old man, I do that too.
The little boy whispered, I wet my pants.
I do too, laughed the old man.
Said the little boy, I often cry.
The old man nodded. So do I.
But worst of all, said the boy,
it seems grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
I know what you mean, said the little old man.

I like the parallel that we end in similar ways to how we begin.

Maya Angelou wrote:

“When you see me sitting quietly, like a sack upon a shelf,
Don’t think I need your chattering. I’m listening to myself.
Hold! Stop! Don’t pity me! Hold! Stop your sympathy!
Understanding if you got it, otherwise I’ll do without it!
When my bones are stiff and aching and my feet won’t climb the stair,
I will only ask one favor: Don’t bring me no rocking chair.
When you see me walking, stumbling, don’t study and get it wrong.
‘Cause tired don’t mean lazy and every goodbye ain’t gone.
I’m the same person I was back then, a little less hair, a little less chin,
A lot less lungs and much less wind.
But ain’t I lucky I can still breathe in.”

Lucky indeed!

Diminishing Returns

Getting old sucks- sure it beats the alternative but it causes us to watch the demise of the persons we used to be. Sure medication helps- Blood pressure, cholesterol, and other old age conditions can be controlled with pills but the one thing that can’t is the mind. The mind remembers how it used to be and wants to be back there but the body says, “No way, Jose,” unless you aren’t Spanish and don’t know the expression. Things hurt, slow down or function differently than in the past. And you remember how it once was and wonder why it can’t be the same as it was. But intellectually you know that things wear out. Tires go bald, mower blades dull, plumbing breaks down. Same thing happens to our bodies. The only difference is there is no technician who can come and service your furnace, repair the elimination system in your body, or even fertilize the hair on your head. You know what I mean!

But we are complex! Our bodies consist of organs that break down, but we also have senses and sensitivities. My ears have diminished. Tinnitus and hearing loss have cause me to say, “What?” My eyes have deteriorated so I have to have my glasses on my forehead at all times so that I can see clearly. Fortunately smell and taste have not deserted me. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t smell the lilacs or taste the sweetness of an apple pie! But touch- now that is a different case. Living alone during the pandemic I don’t get to touch another person. I crave the feeling of someone’s head on my lap or a good foot rub! Sure I can feel the dishes while I am washing them, the soap when I am washing myself in the shower but I can’t feel the human touch! The feel of a hand touching my face tenderly or shaking my hand or brushing the dirt off my arm after I come in from cutting the grass. My sensations have been diminished!

In general my world has diminished. No poetry can express it! My family has diminished. From a large Italian family we are reduced to 3. My son moved south but my daughter is nearby, thank God. In the last two weeks I have lost 3 friends. I didn’t lose them, I know where they are…. they died! So my sphere of people who make up my world is diminishing as well. It is hard for me to be optimistic in this limited environment. In my youth I could always say things will get better. In my senior status I know more than likely my world will continue to diminish so I have to accept it and find a way to be comfortable within this circle of life. Life can still be comfortable! I can take comfort in the fact that over the years I have gained experience and wisdom that merely passing through years afford us. It feels good knowing that wisdom can be accumulated over the years IF you are open to it. Some people never gain wisdom. It is just who they are. I am fortunate in that I have accumulated positive information that I can apply when needed. And at this time in my life and this time in a country full of unrest I guess I have to take comfort in the fact that it may be all I have left to give and that has to be enough! As the body deteriorates, that isn’t such a bad thing!