On Growing Old
What happened to that skinny kid—the one so skinny her ribs could be counted just by looking? Today, she is a twittery, purse-clutching, cane-wielding, pill-popping little old lady living alone. Still skinny, she prefers the term petite. It sounds better.
I am that skinny kid. I'm missing a few parts and have replaced several of the worn-out ones. Then, there are all the abuses suffered by this 88-year-old body. Nothing prepares you for old age. You get out of bed one morning and voila! A bolt out of the blue and you can no longer function normally. What to do? Now, there is ample time not only to smell the roses but also to discuss my aches and pains with others of my ilk.
What an impressive array of pills I have. Group one is simple—just one pill to take when I get out of bed. For a half hour after group one, no eating, drinking, or lying down. The group two pills must be taken on an empty stomach. Then, I can have breakfast and take group three pills. Group four are doled out into a little dish, and I take them on a catch-as-catch-can basis, meaning when I remember. I keep the group four pills in the cupboard; otherwise, they clutter the counter. As soon as I have a workable system, my doctor changes everything. From four pills to two and a half, for example. I do not have much luck splitting a tiny pill, so I guess I am healthier on some days than on others. Whatever.
About the missing parts: The clerk at the shoe store did a double take when he removed my right shoe and saw that a big toe was missing. He shook my shoe and when nothing emerged, he peered …
This 100-word excerpt has been provided in the absence of an abstract.
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