Never did I think this would be my wardrobe of choice: Bermuda shorts, long black stockings, white sneakers, and a plaid shirt. But here I stand, looking at the 92 year old man in the mirror who still looks to me like a middle-aged fella dressed for Halloween as an old man. If I look past the thinning hair and expanding waistline I can still see me in there somewhere. When I was a kid I made fun of guys who looked like this. Did they always dress that way or did they just have no sense of style? Then I moved to Arizona where it’s hotter than the sun. My doctor has me wearing compression socks because of my phlebitis––I can’t help that they only come in one color––and shoes? Yeah, I’d love to wear dress shoes but with my arches, forget about it. So instead of what I used to wear––khaki slacks, a button down sport shirt, and penny loafers––I dress for comfort. Do you know it was 98 degrees here today? And that was before lunch.
Well, how’s that for an introduction? Sorry. My name is Walter Jeffries and I’m that 92-year-old. My wife, Phyllis, passed away twelve years ago and since shortly after that, I’ve lived at this independent senior living facility outside Phoenix. They call it a facility; I think of it more as a hotel.
I have all the conveniences of home and I’m paying for every bit of it. I’m not complaining, mind you. I get my place cleaned once a week; I have a washer-dryer unit if I want to use it, but my clothes and linens are picked up once a week and I get them back the next day; and the food––well, the food is spectacular; a full menu. Last night I had coq au vin and potatoes au gratin with a nice chocolate mousse for dessert.
So I like living here. I haven’t had sex since the Clinton administration, but there are things more important than a roll in the hay. I’m not sure I’d survive it anyway and besides, without Phyllis.... So yes, I do enjoy the lifestyle here at Casa del Norte, almost as much as the happy, smiling models in the brochure.
But this morning, while sitting at the edge of my bed for 30 minutes trying to clear the old head, I started to evaluate where I’ve been and where I’m headed. I mean, at this age, I only have so many years left. I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself. When folks on the news talk about a massive public works project scheduled to be finished in 20 years, I just tune them out. I certainly won’t be around to see it. And that’s fine. I’m not sure I want to be tottering around at the age of 112, while all my friends have gone on to their final reward. But I do want to make what years I have left meaningful ones.
My son lives in the Bay Area so I don’t see him but twice or three times a year. He’s a good kid who’s very thoughtful, but he’s got a family of his own and still working toward retirement. He does something with computers, but I’ve never understood exactly what. He and his wife and my two grandkids call me at least three times a week, so I don’t feel like I’m all alone. Besides, I’ve made plenty of friends here. Back when I first moved in, we’d get together for golf, but when that became too arduous, we settled for Hearts and Rummikub. I’m a reader, and our library here at Casa del Norte is full of books. I like presidential biographies and books about World War II. A small but dwindling group of vets from those days gets together once a week and we swap stories over a couple beers.
I haven’t always been 92 years old, obviously. This is all new to me. I used to get around like nobody’s business. When Phyllis and I were raising our family, we moved around from one Denver neighborhood to another and each new residence needed some touching-up. I was too frugal to hire someone to do what I was plainly able to do myself. So we painted rooms, put up drywall, ran electrical wire, hung wallpaper, and never thought twice about whether we could handle it or not. But at the last house, when I was just about to turn 70, I was on my knees painting the baseboard that surrounded our wooden floors and I told Phyllis, “I’m getting too old for this.” Pretty funny for a guy who, when he was in his sixties, figured he’d look and feel exactly the same when he was in his eighties. I was sore for days after that project, a job we would’ve zipped through with no problem 20 years earlier. Phyllis was already retired from DIY projects that involved anything more than pounding some picture hangers in the wall or hanging a valence over the window. She knew her limitations. My pride usually got the best of me and paid me back in sore muscles and long recoveries.
After Phyllis died, I lived alone for a while in the retirement community in Colorado Springs that we’d been living in for ten years. But being at the old place just brought back too many memories. Most of my golfing buddies were gone, either dead or moved away to be closer to grandchildren, so when my son Rick encouraged me to move in with him and his family in Sunnyvale, California, I said that sounded like a good idea. And it was, for a while, but I had nothing to do. I offered to help out by cooking a couple times a week––they used to call me The Grillmaster––but Susan said she had it under control and that I shouldn’t have to worry about that. I said I’d be happy to do some light yard work or fix things around the house but Rick said that wasn’t necessary; they had a lawn service for the yard and a contract with a local company for household maintenance. They included me in things like dinners out and we went to their church together and I enjoyed it, but I had no real social life outside the family. I missed Phyllis and my friends.
One night I was watching Matlock in my room and saw a commercial for Casa del Norte and thought that sounded pretty good. When I brought it up to Rick and Susan, they tried to talk me out of it, but only halfheartedly. I could tell they thought it was a good idea too.
So we all hopped on a plane and made a vacation out of it. Susan took the kids to Sedona and Rick and I investigated my potential new digs. The staff was so welcoming. They even had a little sign printed up and displayed in the lobby that said, “Welcome, Mr. Walter Jeffries. We hope you enjoy your visit!”
After taking a tour of the rooms, the gym, and the pool we stopped for lunch in the dining hall. That sealed the deal. I had the filet of sole with field greens and peach cobbler for dessert and Rick had the sirloin tips and fingerling potatoes and had a brownie and ice cream for dessert.
It didn’t take long before I was signing on the dotted line and preparing for my move. I started making out a to-do list for how we could best handle the move, but the folks at my new place said they’d take care of everything. All I had to do was show up and the place would be ready for me. They said they’d even arrange the furniture so that when I arrived on my first day, it would feel like I was coming home.
It all happened pretty quickly, kind of like old age. One day you’re tooling around at Costco and grabbing lunch at Chick-fil-A, then seemingly the next day you’re going to the doctor––usually a specialist––for any number of ailments that have waited till now to give you trouble. My A1C number is too high, so is my PSA. I have trouble swallowing sometimes, my joints ache, I’m up three times a night to go to the bathroom, I get dizzy if I get up too fast, there’s a spot of some sort on my liver that was just discovered on yet another MRI but they’re not too concerned, and I forget things. They draw enough blood from me to make Dracula say, “No more for me, thanks. I’m full.” In general, I feel every bit of 92.
I knew it would happen eventually, even though I pretended it wouldn’t. I used to say I’d never look any different than I did when I was 65 but I knew that was a pipe dream. I mean, did I think at 35 that I was going to look like that at 65? I usually said it for laughs, but there was something inside that thought I could short-circuit the aging process and go where I pleased, whenever I pleased and wouldn’t have to worry about where the nearest toilet was at any given moment.
It sounds like I’m complaining, I know, and I don’t mean to. I’ve lived a good life and when it comes time to check out, I’ll be fine with that. The thing that really bothers me, though, is that most days now I wake up at 10:00 and just lie there for a good 30 minutes before even thinking of getting out of bed. What do I need to get up for? Breakfast? Sometimes I’m not even hungry in the morning.
When I was still working, I couldn’t wait to get to the office. I’d kiss Phyllis goodbye then grab a quick bite on my way out the door. I loved my work. I was a dermatologist. (I know, I know. I, of all people, should have known that the body doesn’t stay young forever.) I loved the give and take with my patients. I watched a lot of them grow up and get older and when something came along that could hurt them or just scared them, I was the calming voice of reason and expertise that walked them through their particular valley of distress and anxiety. I was the guy they called about the mysterious lump or the rash that wouldn’t go away. They knew they could call on me and I could sort through the problem, fix it if it needed fixing, and generally just make them feel better. I saw my last patient 27 years ago.
Excuse me, there’s a knock at the door. Let me shuffle on over there and find out what that’s all about. I’ll be right back.
Well, isn’t that nice? The lady next door––her name’s Eileen––she says her son’s going to give me a call in the next hour. She told him that I was quite the handyman in my day and he wants to get some advice on a drywall project he’s working on. He’s having trouble figuring out how to cut around for the electrical outlets. He’ll be amazed at how easy it is, but I’m glad to help him out. I told Eileen that if he’d rather, I can stop by his house and show him how to do it. She said he was hoping I’d say that but was too afraid he’d be imposing. I told her it was no problem at all. I’d be over first thing in the morning.
Okay, I better make a list of what we’ll need. Home Depot opens pretty early so I’ll get in there before the crowds and grab me a drywall saw and a utility knife. Better get some tape and mud while I’m at it and some drywall screws. I always use screws instead of nails. I wonder if he’s got a tape measure? Better pick up one just in case.
Gosh, where has the time gone? It’s almost 5:00 and I’m getting hungry. Oh, you should see what they’re serving tonight. It’s my favorite: Chicken Marsala, Caesar salad, fettuccine Alfredo, and for dessert––baked Alaska.