I'm an old man

I’m an old man and I look like one. I remember when a young man wasn’t such a big deal; they were everywhere and I was one of them. And I didn’t even notice. Now a young man is so straight, so tall, so airborne with hope. His neck is loose and relaxed, his skin strong and smooth. Shaped tightly against his jaw. His hair is shiny and cut short and curves against his forehead above his bright, glittering eyes. This kind of man is a foreigner to me now. I stare at him when I see him, and he doesn’t even look in my direction. I stare and take in the sureness of his gait, his easy, effortless strides. Palms open and relaxed, arms swinging gracefully. His body is a mechanical miracle. He doesn’t even know it. He is thinking about where he’s going, who he’s going to meet, what he’s going to say, how he’s going to impress them. Maybe he’s thinking about food, a cheeseburger he can eat without concern for cholesterol or slipping dentures or heart medicine, he can just eat and taste every bite and enjoy it without even thinking twice. It’s all so natural for him, moving, eating, kissing, bathing, pissing. His bowels work like clockwork, no matter what he eats. They just do their business and he goes about his day, without having to worry whether the next one will feel like a sock full of pebbles or a pinecone decorated with razor blades. I remember being this man. I just can’t believe he’s gone.

I’m eighty-eight, which is a nice round number, and I’d be happy to die at this age. It seems like a good, even number. But they tell me I could live another ten years. Ten years! It seems like an eternity. But when I think about where I was ten years ago, at seventy-eight, it seems like it was this morning. And I thought I was going to die any minute then. How will it be at ninety-eight, what else will be hurting, burning, aching, drooping, softening? What will those ten years be like, if they happen? If they come? Ten years of more disintegration, more deterioration, more degradation? More family members coming around for their necessary visits, their begrudging obligations, behind their eyes a little jump of glee when you cough. Maybe you’re reaching the end, maybe it’s almost time for them to be released. Freed from you and these visits, the bills, the Christmas cards. They could tidy up, cross you off the list and fold your photos, your life, into a dusty album. You become an ancestor. A name and a face in a picture for future generations. No more than two seconds spent trying to remember who beget who and maybe, maybe someone recalling what you did for a living. But probably not.

I realize I’m sounding pretty bleak. It’s how I’ve felt these last few days. Weeks, years, who knows. I lose count. Everything blends together and the only way to mark off the passing of another day is by another successful bowel movement. An unsuccessful one is a waste of a day. May as well have never gotten out of bed. Those days don’t count.

I’m sitting on my bed, feet on the floor. My hands on my knees are knobby on knobby, gnarled on gnarled. I’m a withering tree. Branches drying up and shrinking, crumbling, leaves turning browner every day. I don’t have any pants on yet when she comes in.

“Morning,” she says. She goes to the closet, takes out my brown corduroy trousers. She leaves the hanger askew and she knows I hate that. She lays them on the bed and takes my hand from my knee. “Come on,” she says. She’s gentle as a lamb. “Pants.”

“God damn it,” I say. I pull my hand away. I don’t mean to be gruff with her. I hate myself like this. But it just comes out that way. “I’ve told you I can put them on myself.”

She backs away. Clasps her hands behind her back. I can’t look at her face.

“Just get my my shirt,” I say. “Please.”

When her back is turned at the closet door, I ease one foot at a time into the pants, still sitting. Then I steady myself against the bed frame and pull myself up. She stays turned around for longer than it takes to select a shirt, but I know that she’s giving me a respectful amount of time. I can’t stand the thought of her pulling my pants up for me, getting too close a look at my old body in my underwear and undershirt. There are some things that require a modicum of dignity. I pull up the pants, elastic waist with no buttons. I had to give them up unless I want her buttoning my trousers for me. My fingers don’t understand buttons anymore. And I can’t seem to explain it to them.

Somehow she knows when it’s safe to turn around. I let her help me with my shirt and do the snaps. I tuck myself in though. It’s not right to have a young girl shove her hands down an old man’s pants, even under the guise of eldercare.

“What do you want to do today?” She asks this as if there are so many choices. As if I could do anything in the world, all I have to do is say the word.

“Sky diving,” I say. She smiles at me, one of those smiles that make her huge eyes twinkle.

She straps on my watch. From the forties, and it still works. It was my father’s. I guess it’s the kind of thing every father should pass down to his son. It occurs to me, every time I put it on, that I probably should have passed it down to my son. Don’t know why I didn’t. But as soon as I have that thought I let it go, it comes and it disappears again like a shooting star. And when it’s over, it’s over. I move on to thinking about moving my feet. Walking to the bathroom. It takes all of my attention. No time anymore to think about watches and sons. Time to coax out a pinecone.