Feeling Old?

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“Do you feel old?”

I had to admit, in that moment, I thought I did. My doctor, who is young, probably young enough to be my grandchild, just barely though, had stormed out of the exam room, just minutes before. He came back and threw a box containing a blood pressure monitor at me. He thought I wasn’t taking my health care seriously enough. He looked angry, and sad, and I felt guilty.

Following him was a short woman with a neatly styled pageboy haircut, she looked fit, her arms were well defined, without being masculine, and she looked serious.

“It comes with batteries, so you can’t even use that as an excuse.” He said. “This is Nurse Williams; she is going to call you every month and make sure you are taking your medicine and checking your blood pressure.” He left, and we were sitting there, Nurse Williams, my boxed blood pressure cuff and me.

Nurse Williams was holding a clipboard, studying it, making a few entries. I was staring at the box with the cuff and trying to avoid eye contact. I was a little ashamed. My doctor was always so nice. “You’re in really good shape for a man your age,” was a constant, his approval with a qualification. That day he had had enough.

Nurse Williams looked up from the paper on the clipboard and explained that she was only a couple of years younger than me. She was planning on retiring in a year, and her question was sincere.

Did I feel old? How do you answer that?

“I feel good, most of the time. Right now, I’m not so sure. I don’t feel old. At least I don’t think I feel old, but maybe this is what old feels like. You know, I don’t think I can answer that question.” I had picked up a new machine, to keep me inline. And I had a nurse who was going to call and make sure I didn’t stray. Plus, I have a new prescription to go with the other ones I often forgot. Maybe I didn’t feel old, but there were signs.

“Ok, that’s fair. I guess if you feel good, that’s probably good enough.” Nurse Williams, said.

She called me a few times, and I told her the truth, I was taking my medicine and tracking my blood pressure, and everything was going well. In three months, I had a follow up appointment. The results were so good he said I didn’t have to come back for a year. Time off for good behavior. I didn’t know which had been more of an incentive to comply, the threat of Nurse Williams’ disapproval or my doctor’s disappointment.

I never heard from or saw Nurse Williams again. In a way I kind of miss her. It was nice to hear from someone who just wanted to make sure I was ok. There is so little real contact in the world today.

It’s been several years since then, and I still have the blood pressure monitor, and I still use it. And I still have that question.

Do I feel old?

How do you know? Is it relative? What does it feel like to be old? I’m old, for sure, I rocketed right past middle aged into the rarified air of senior citizenship. But I don’t see myself as old.

I don’t ever remember feeling young, but I don’t remember how I felt. I’m sure I felt different, but I don’t really feel old. I don’t think I feel old, anyway.

There were times I don’t feel like doing anything. My book is too heavy to hold, and the scratching sound the yellow, plastic, mechanical pencil makes drawing letters in the little squares on a crossword puzzle is too keen to endure, music is too loud, and television is just way too much of almost everything. Looking online is fruitless and repetitive. Maybe that’s what feeling old feels like.

Recently, I had to have a procedure (full disclosure: I had to have three) to regulate my heart rhythm, and my cardiologist told me oftentimes people would feel better afterward. And I think I do. I’m not sure if the feeling is an actual feeling, or if it’s all in my head, the power of suggestion. Either way, sometimes, these days, I just feel renewed. A stack of dirty dishes is nothing to me. I wash and scrub and dry and store them neatly away, and then I’m ready to fix a little lunch, dirty dishes be damned. Somedays, I defy the lawn to grow, so I can mow it down, leave it neat, trimmed, subservient.

Sometimes breathing is too much work.

I guess, sometimes I feel old, and sometimes I don’t. It isn’t always obvious how I feel, old, or young, bright and cheerful, or gloomy and sullen. All my life I’ve been old, and I’ve been young, it had no relation to my age. Looking back and looking currently, how I felt, and the endless, awful passage of time were the only things that left a mark on me.

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This Post is republished on Medium.

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Photo credit: iStock