I am old. According to government statistics, the average age of death for a female is 81.1. That means I am already dead, statistically speaking. So far, I’ve not seen myself in the obituaries, but there are days when I am afraid to look.

I feel pretty healthy to be as old as I am. I attribute my good health to not thinking about it. That works for some things. For other things, not so well. I am a cancer survivor. I had to think about it when I was getting treatment. Now that I’m over it, I try to forget.

Like many oldsters, I am afflicted by arthritis. My joints hurt and prevent me from doing things I love, like gardening. I had to turn the yard over to my son. I figured he would neglect it and everything would turn to weeds. Actually, he does a pretty good job. If I knew he would do so well, I would have retired from it a long time ago.

If arthritis was the only thing wrong with me, I would be overjoyed. It is hard waking up in the morning. My legs are so stiff I am afraid I won’t make it to the bathroom. After being up for a while, it goes away. Yet, on really bad days, when it rains or storms, my body thinks it is a barometer.

I didn’t realize the damage arthritis caused until the joints in my fingers swelled. I can no longer wear my rings. That is sad as some of them have a lot of sentimental value to me. Of course, my fingers have sentimental value as well. If I wear fingernail polish, will it make my hands look better or call attention to how bad they look?

I sometimes feel as if I have nothing to talk about except illnesses and surgeries. I can’t remember how many surgeries I’ve had without counting the scars. I’ve had so many joints replaced that metal detectors hide when they see me coming.

Another common ailment of old age is loss of balance. The balance problem led to falling and hurting my knee. The bad knee led to falling and breaking a hip. Then I broke my shoulder and so on and on. I used a cane, but as things progressed I had to use a walker. I even a used a wheelchair for a while. Canes are best. No one bothers you when you have a weapon in your hand.

Dying my gray hair no longer fools anyone. Wrinkles prove my age. Creams do not help, regardless of what some celebrity says on TV. I’ve considered face lifts and Botox, but use of a walker is a dead give away of age. I keep plugging along with hair that is straight. I can’t raise my arm enough to curl it since I broke my shoulder. Looking young does not make you young.

I hired a maid to clean the house. At least she pretends she is cleaning. Recently, I’ve also decided that cooking is too hard to do on a walker. We live on precooked food or carry-out. Not cooking is a great idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.

With hired help and what I can get others to do, I get by. So far I’m capable of taking care of my own personal needs without hiring a professional assistant. I can still drive, but I don’t really need a car to shop. I can get anything I want from Amazon, Chewy, or Walmart, and my cat loves the boxes.

I have some physical problems, but at least I still have my right mind. Dementia hasn’t found me yet. Old age should be a time for reflection, enjoying memories instead of making new ones. Unfortunately, reality dictates otherwise. The best way I’ve found to deal with it, though, is to keep a sense of humor. I choose to laugh at human frailties.

Copyright 2025 Sheila Moss