Keys

When I put my once nimble fingers to the keys, I always hope something cogent or germane will be the result. Each time I try but some blogs “connect” better than others. And then I realized, I am not the only person facing this 4th Quarter conundrum that comes with advancing age. This week I read an editorial in The Week that I feel is worth sharing as it is clear, to the point, and expresses succinctly what lies ahead for all of us. The author is William Falk, and I reprint his thoughts with a couple of minor changes:

When I took my mother’s car keys away, she cursed at me. I’d never heard my sweet, churchgoing mom use language like that in my life, but she couldn’t accept that at 85, her fading vision, hearing, and memory made her unsafe at any speed. I was reminded of the day Mom followed me to the door shouting “Give me back those #@$&%! keys” when Joe Biden spent several weeks insisting against all evidence that he was fit to serve four more years. Giving up the most powerful and prestigious job in the world, obviously, is more painful than losing access to the Camry.  But the denial and the anger are fundamentally the same. Getting old, I’ve found, demands a succession of surrenders. You can accept these losses with some grace and rueful resignation—or go to war with the inevitable. Pro tip: You can’t win.

I’m still more than a decade from Biden’s stage of life, but if I put on my glasses, I can see the shape of it on the horizon. Behind me, the path is long and littered with losses large and small. Joints worn out from years of running, basketball, softball, and typing take turns complaining, and the mirror reveals a graying old guy I sometimes do not recognize.  Too many loved ones and friends are gone. 

Yet life has pretty much worked out as I’d hoped, but the surrenders continue. The best strategy, it appears, is to accept them and fall back behind a new line of defense and prepare for the next assault. I know how you feel, Mr. President. When they come for my car keys, I suspect I, too, will curse.

As I wrote a couple of blog entries ago in “Transitions,” this is precisely what is happening to me, and I surmise to most of you to greater and lesser degrees. “A succession of surrenders” is happening to my friends and me, and it is inevitable though we fight tooth and nail to “hold on” to our lifestyles as long as possible. Lately, I’ve hit another of those proverbial bumps in the road, this time a lower back that will give me no rest or comfort. Gordy Taylor needs a shoehorn to put on his left tennis shoe and strives mightily to tie his own shoelaces. I roll over in bed all night vainly attempting to find a comfortable position to no avail. Some nights, I can be found at midnight walking up and down the cul-de-sac just hoping to get tired enough to fall asleep despite it all. I now walk like Joe Biden. 

“Dr.” Diane and Primary Care Physician Dr. Curtis Farr have made countless phone calls and fought the insurance battles to secure X-rays and an MRI. I’m confident there will be relief down the road, but the journey is frustrating, and the small losses begin to take their toll. There is no giving up and you’ll have to pry those keys from my hand. As an old woman I met on the beach once told me, “Young man (it was a long time ago), every day above ground is a great day.” She was correct.  I need to remember that tomorrow and the next day and the next day.

Yet, through all this, life provides us with humor, and I’ve learned to treasure those precious moments. Daniel Conrad Taylor is five and a half (the half is very important to this young man), and last month we were in Grayslake visiting him. His parents were there as well, but it was Dan and Lady the Wonder Dog we were there to visit.  There is a cute little Lilypond in their backyard, and we caught a crawdad that had made the mistake of venturing outside the pond periphery.  I held him up and Dan clearly remarked, “That will really piss him off.” Now I didn’t teach him that phrase, so I looked over at Ryan, who of our three children, probably uses “colorful” language least often, if ever.  However, as it relates to crawdads, this might be the exception.  I tried not to laugh, unsuccessfully, and Dan exclaimed, “Gramps, this isn’t funny.”

A couple of weeks ago we were in Chagrin Falls, Ohio (outside Cleveland) visiting Gordon III, Lisa, and their family. We had not seen Ava (12) or Kent (7) in over a year. Consequently, they had not seen Grandpa’s feeding tube. Kent, a fledgling scientist in training, asked if he could see how it worked.  I quickly obliged. Kent surveyed the tube protruding from my stomach, gave it some thought and then remarked, “I wish you didn’t need that but because you do you are still here with us.”  Grandma and Grandpa smiled at his thoughtful and insightful comment.

Time to find those damn car keys before someone else does.