The Art of Aging Gratefully

As each passing year has snuck up and shoved me a little further into senior citizenship, I am struck by how my view of the world and myself keeps changing. Consider these revealing signs of age-related evolution:

• I refer to people who drive any faster than I do as “maniacs.”

• My idea of hitting the club scene is shopping at Costco.

• I moved to a 55 Plus community so that when I use bygone words like “transistor radio,” “Mickey Mantle,” or “the Sears catalog” people know what I'm talking about.

• I divide my life into two periods: “The Agricultural Age” when I could eat everything in sight and not gain weight, and “The Information Age” where I read everything in sight about eating better to lose weight. 

• I say things like “Be careful, it’s a jungle out there” and “Can someone please explain to me why a baseball player is worth $10 million a year while a teacher only makes $35,000?”

• When I pull a muscle, twist an ankle, or otherwise injure myself in even a minor way, I know from experience that my recovery time may parallel the duration and comfort level of hiking cross country while pushing a barbecue grill. 

After another year rushed by and propelled me forward, I decided to launch an all-out search for the deeper meaning of my life. Conveniently, I found it on a celebrity website where I read that Rod Stewart, George Foreman and Frank Sinatra Jr. were all born on the same day as me. This is a truly fascinating piece of trivia since I’ve always thought that if you could somehow genetically combine those three men, you’d wind up with me. 

Okay, I haven’t always thought that, or even thought it once prior to seeing their names linked together by a random date on the calendar, but trivia always make me take a serious look at things.

Take the gray hairs that are appearing on my head in growing numbers. I tell myself that the gray I’ll be seeing in the mirror from here on out will come so gradually that almost nobody will notice. Oh sure, kids can be cruel (“Look mommy, it’s Wolf Blitzer!”) but most people will be too busy staring at their phones to separate the salt from the pepper.

Besides, I have come to see the significance of things like gray hairs as symbolizing the seasons of life. In case you hadn’t thought about it before, in your teens and 20s you’re in the springtime of your years. By the time you hit your 30s and 40s you are in summer. I’m in my late 60s. It’s mid-October from where I’m standing and I’m not in any hurry for the autumn leaves to fall.

Hey, I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. Well, not my whole life. But part of the fall and all of winter. With daily walks, a good multi-vitamin, proper colon care and afternoon naps, I should be able to keep that youthful spark that makes life worthwhile for us aging boomers.

One thing I know for sure at this stage of the game: It’s a nice place to get to in life where nothing much dazzles you but you have a quiet appreciation for many things. I’m there and I do.

Life is precious and tomorrow isn’t promised. So enjoy every sunset. Every sandwich. Every song. Every laugh. Every hug. Every new morning. Every old friend.

I think Oliver Wendell Holmes put aging in the best perspective when he said, “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” In my case, I’ve discovered that what lies within is a nine-year-old boy who, in spite of evidence to the contrary, thinks if he runs across the lawn fast enough and jumps in just the right way, he can one day fly. 

Aging gratefully? You bet I am.

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My Wild Lake Life

Let me confess something right up front: My vision for a happy retirement was to live on a golf course in Central Florida. It has nothing to do with my love of golf or my desire to awaken a dormant gift for the game in my golden years. 

Truth be told, I’ve never played golf and don’t know if I ever will. It’s just that after years of being surrounded by houses on zero lot lines, my wife Sherry and I longed for the scenic buffer the green space of golf would give us.

So how did we wind up living on a lake? I guess you could say some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted but getting something unexpectedly exceptional instead. 

With close to a year of swinging and missing in our golf villa search, we decided to expand our criteria. I let our realtor know that in addition to a golf course, our next home could back up to a preserve, park, lake or pond. When a lake house turned up shortly thereafter, we pounced like a Great Egret plucking a passing fish from the shallow water.

Egrets and Heron and Deer – Oh My!

Thanks to its tropical climate and numerous wetland habitats, Florida is home to over 500 native and migratory birds. Many of these diverse species have thoughtfully given me a chance to improve my bird knowledge by frolicking in full view outside my screened patio.

“Look – it’s a suburban butternut stork,” I excitedly alert my wife, hiding my limited avian expertise behind a façade of feathery wordplay. “They’re unapologetically omnivorous and feed on frogs, lizards, small rodents, and pan-fried crab cakes.”

“That’s a Great Blue Heron,” Sherry corrects me, having Googled “Florida birds” and given herself the aura of an Audubon Ambassador. “They’re actually skilled predators that feed on fish, rodents, frogs, reptiles and small birds.”

“It’s good to be at the top of the food chain with them around,” I joke, grateful for the unearned advantage.

The egrets and herons are almost daily guests in our well-attended lake show, along with periodic visits from pelicans, ibis, sandhill cranes, ducks and Roseate spoonbills – a bizarrely-conceived creature that looks like a cross between a flamingo and a kitchen gadget.

My favorite tourists are a mama deer and her fawn, who occasionally make their way slowly from yard to yard, foraging on leaves, twigs, stems, and plants. It’s a hard way to eat more salad, but they seem to manage it. 

The fawn is rambunctious, often leaving the mother’s side to explore some curiosity a few houses away. I sense the protective instinct kicking in, and in echoes of mothers everywhere I can imagine her yelling, “Hey, what did I tell you about running off? Now get your tail back here before you wind up missing like your cousin Venison!”

Later Gator

Once in a while we’ll spot an alligator quietly floating along. Some people say that living by a lake where there are alligators is dangerous. But I say driving a car is much more dangerous. Especially if there’s an alligator hiding in the backseat.

One day I noticed a gator uncomfortably close to the water’s edge eyeing an ibis that was pacing back and forth a few feet away. I hurriedly grabbed my binoculars anticipating a deadly encounter between predator and prey. After several minutes of tension-filled inactivity, I asked myself a practical question: Do I really want to witness an act of swift and brutal violence that will stay tattooed on my brain forever? The answer was no. That’s what R-rated movies are for.

Fortunately the ibis flew away, the gator moved on, and I made a mental note to avoid scenes of horrific mayhem. I haven’t watched the news in three weeks.

Going Deep

When friends come to visit they sometimes ask what goes on out on the lake.

“Can you swim in it?” No, I say.

“Boating?” Again, no.

“Can you kayak, snorkel, waterboard?” Not a chance.

When the questions run their course, I patiently explain that our lake is one just for looking at – a haven for wonderful wildlife, a magnificent mirror to the sun and moon, and a peaceful source of reflection and inspiration.

For those who crave a murkier portrayal, I tell them I’m working on a new mystery novel entitled “Looking In The Lake.”

What’s in the lake? Who is looking? How deep is the water? Are there weird fish? Is a pretty town girl missing?

I fear I’ve said too much already.

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What's New At The Zoo

I read somewhere that 80% of the Earth's species have yet to be discovered. Or as one of the undiscovered species likes to put it, "I'll be waiting next time you take the garbage out at night, home boy."

After a recent trip to Central Florida’s Brevard Zoo, I’ve got good news: the missing species search can be cancelled. They’re here. Okay, maybe not every single one of them, but excluding Big Foot and the Loc Ness Monster, the zoo is teeming with obscure and exotic creatures. Skeptical? Let me introduce you to a few.

White-Nosed Coati. Resembling a cross between a raccoon and a opossum, these omnivores have long supple snouts well suited for foraging in crevices, holes and, if given access, couch cushions. Female coati band together in groups while the males live solitary lives, except during breeding season when they can be found hanging out at bars reeking of cologne and waving their tails seductively.

Black-Crowned Cranes. Hailing from West Africa, these rare birds are known to form loving, exclusive relationships with a partner. Royal and Goose, the Brevard Zoo’s resident black-crowned fun couple, can often be seen dancing and flirting with each other. When their habitat wanderings leave them temporarily separated, they let out loud squawking sounds to make sure the other is still nearby. Once reunited, they taper off to a soft clucking noise and downplay their previous panic saying things like “just playing” and “I really had you going there.”

Two-Toed Sloth. There’s slow and then there’s sloth slow. These laid-back mammals spend most of their lives in trees, and because their metabolism is so sluggish, they don’t come down for days on end before needing to eat or relieve themselves. During our visit, a zoo worker told us that an 18-year-old sloth named Sammy we were looking at was pregnant. “Pregnant!?” I blurted in mock disbelief. “I didn’t even know she was dating!”

Alligator Snapping Turtle. Look, it’s an alligator! No, it’s a snapping turtle! Wait – is there such a thing as an alligator snapping turtle? The answer is yes, his name is Capone and he’s swimming right toward you with his bone-crushing jaws and dinosaur-like tail. Good thing he’s incased in his aquatic habitat and you’re on the outside wondering how you could get a selfie with him and live to tell about it. According to one of the animal caregivers at the zoo, Capone is “smart, engaging and silly,” much like a reptile Ellen Degeneres.

While getting to know all the zoo’s colorful creatures, it’s required that visitors follow a few basic rules of the wild.

-  Do not make animal sounds that mimic wildlife in an insensitive way. (In my defense, I thought my orangutang impression was spirited but respectful.)

- No feeding the animals unauthorized food. Translation: Spare them the disgusting slop you shove down your pie hole on a daily basis.

- Leave your pet at home. The zoo’s animal population has plenty of diversity without adding your cockapoo or blue tick hunting hound.

- No shirt, no shoes, no zoo admission. Unless there’s a Tarzan lookalike contest that day, then a tasteful loincloth and body oil is permissible.

- When petting a female kangaroo, refrain from saying things like “is that a baby in your pouch or are you just packing on the pounds.” (They won’t get a kick out of it, but you will. A nasty bite, too.)

- Visitors who carry a journal with them to take notes should guard it closely around the spider monkeys. They will snatch it and read embarrassing entries out loud, such as: “My Dearest Darling, Oh how I ache for your tender touch, your hairless face against my tattooed neck.” (Real funny, Coco. Hope you never have a journal go missing.)

- If you think an animal has whispered the words “get me out of here” to you, you may be experiencing a heat exhaustion hallucination. Seek shade and hydration immediately, preferably away from the alleged disgruntled animal. They are either a figment of your imagination or an ungrateful troublemaker – either way, your best move is to sever ties.

Keeping these sensible guidelines in mind, you owe it to yourself to plan an outing at the zoo soon. The confining cages of the past have given way to energizing open-air habitats where wildlife of all kinds can thrive.

Chances are, you will discover some animals you never even knew existed. And trust me, it’s better to meet them at the zoo than the next time you take the garbage out at night.

A Word About Wordle

When debating the single greatest invention of all time, one could make a good case for words. If they’re not number one, they would at least have to be in the top five. Think about it. Without words, our attempts at communication would be reduced to a series of grunts, gestures and facial expressions. Such primitive methods would leave a lot open to interpretation.

For example, without the words “Will you marry me,” a proposal delivered with grunts and gestures might result in two people training for a half marathon together. Conversely, without the words “What are your plans for the weekend,” a confused couple could jump into a quickie wedding presided over by a heavyset Elvis impersonator.

A working command of words took on even more importance a few years ago when the game Wordle caught fire and won a following that made Taylor Swift fans look like a small cult. For those who don’t know (both of you), Wordle is a web-based game developed by a sadistic software engineer named Josh Wardle. Every day, the diabolical Wardle grants players six attempts to guess a five-letter word that has no tie-in to any theme, trend or topic.

After every blind swing to hit on a random unfathomable word, each letter is marked either green, yellow or gray. Green means the letter is correct and in the right position; yellow means it is part of the answer but in the wrong spot; gray means it is not in the answer at all. Sound like fun? That depends. Do you like the challenge of a spelling bee where no one gives you the word you need to spell?

This Is Your Brain On Wordle

Try as you might to resist it, Wordle has a powerful ability to keep you coming back for another crack at five-letter glory. For me, it starts each day minutes after waking up. I grab my tablet and stare at the screen while the coffee brews, waiting for the inspiration to tap in a starter word. Since your brain has no way to logically or strategically uncover the word in question, the possibilities are wide open. RIVER? ONION? PANTS? LOOPY? It could be any of these, just not on the day you guess them.

I have certain go-to words I frequently start with such as DREAM, LEARN, FRESH or SMILE, but they’ve been no more effective than looking at my elbow and typing ELBOW. Sometimes I convince myself that because I had pasta the night before, I need to start with the word PASTA. I’ll type in PASTA, eagerly anticipating that I’m about to hit the target on my first try only to go 0 for 6 and find out the word was GEESE.  

One of the first tips seasoned Wordle players give you is to always include two or three vowels in your guesses. The theory being that even if the vowels are in the wrong sequence, there’s a high probability they are building blocks for the answer at large. This sounds like a reasonable approach until you plug in something like IRATE and the word comes up GYPSY.

The Need For Speed

Part of Wordle’s addictive appeal is that it’s a game that can be played quickly, returning you to your regularly scheduled life in just a few minutes. Except when the brain tease becomes a brain freeze and five minutes becomes 25 minutes. When this happens, I reach deep within me to find the tenacity and grit to keep trying no matter how long it takes.

Okay, I wish that were true. What actually happens around the 20-minute mark is I take my last incorrect guess (FROCK) and repeat it several times (FROCK, FROCK, FROCK) until I reach the six-attempt limit that triggers the correct answer. Tanking a game is not something I’m proud of, but on the other hand, I know that the answer that eluded me was AGONY and mine ended sooner rather than later.

Bragging Rights

In my family, there are recognized Wordle standards of performance to guess the winning word that stack up as follows:

Two or three tries:  Woo Hoo worthy.

Four tries: Fair but 4-gettable.

Five tries: Nothing to high five about.

Six tries: You stunk, but survived shutout shame.

My mom, a retired librarian and voracious reader, regularly tops my daily score. If I get it in four, she gets three. If I get three, she gets two. If I get two, she gets two faster. She’s also a willing partner to my grumbling about the game’s self-perceived shortcomings.

Me: “Since when is CRONE a word?”

Mom: “Exactly. I’m so sick of these words I’ve never heard of.”

Me: “I just looked up the definition: ‘A cruel or ugly old woman.’ Seriously Wordle?”

Mom: “They must be running out of five-letter words.”

Me: “I’ve got one for them: BOGUS!”

My petty complaints notwithstanding, Wordle has added a nice little routine to my mornings that jump-starts my brain and gets my juices flowing for the day ahead.

And when all goes well and the right letters some early and easy, there’s one five-letter word that perfectly describes my flashes of brilliance as a Wordle player: LUCKY.

###

Home Boy Hits The Gym

The number on my blood results jumped off the page: Total Cholesterol 246. It was the latest in a series of reality checks that appeared to indicate a decline in overall health. Other red flags over the last nine months included a 12-pound weight gain, the energy level of an aging panda, and a tendency to count the extra steps taken by parking farther from a store as “high-intensity exercise.”

“I have to start working out again,” I announced to my wife, a bag of potato chips in one hand, the TV remote in the other.

“Just start slow and don’t overdo it,” Sherry cautioned. “You’ve been pretty inactive, and you don’t need to try all the equipment at the gym the first time out.”

 When she said the word “gym” I cringed. The 55-plus community we moved to 6 months ago has a perfectly fine fitness center, but I had been working out at home for 20 plus years. My gym was a spare room in our house featuring a lat machine, weight bench, dumbbells, and a membership of one: me.

Working Through Workout Worries

The idea of using a gym open to others filled me with angst and unanswered questions.

How can I learn to use unfamiliar equipment without looking like a newbie? 

What’s an acceptable amount of talking, grunting, flexing or moaning?

What do I bring? A towel? Two towels? A gym bag? A backpack? A workout log? A log from a tree for bicep curls?

Should I hire a personal trainer or be my own trainer barking nonsensical orders at myself like “blast those lard barrels!” and “squat till you squawk!”

Putting nagging questions about gym etiquette aside, I decided to follow the lead of writer Joseph Campbell who said, “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.”

A Trip To The Cave… a.k.a. Gym.

As I entered the fitness center for the first time, I was whisked into a world where sleek, high-tech equipment stands ready to rejuvenate the tattered, time-beaten bodies of me and my fellow youth seekers.

Where does one start? The pec deck? The power rower? The cable crossover station? Let’s get real. I headed straight for the rack of dumbbells, secure in my knowledge of how to use these basic muscle building tools.

As I did some warm-up shoulder presses and hammer curls, I scanned my surroundings to survey the activities of my gym mates. All three of them. One man sat on a weight bench recovering from whatever he had just put himself through. Another roamed the floor, looking like someone in search of motivation… or possibly a misplaced water bottle. A woman worked out energetically near a mirrored wall, swinging some light weights and swaying to the sounds of a private playlist embedded in her musical memory.

The man on the weight bench walked by on his way out and offered some friendly advice: “Be careful on the ab machine. It kills your shoulders.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I replied watching him shuffle away, his drooping shoulders a pitiful casualty of my gender’s misguided pursuit of six pack abs. To my fellow man I say forget six pack abs. Ditto buns of steel. Be grateful for the camouflage of clothes and opportunities to impress others with attributes independent of the body.

Pumping Iron, Popping Advil

Emboldened by my all-access freedom in a nearly empty gym, I headed to the chest press machine and locked in the weight stack at a level that seemed appropriate. Guess again, home boy. I could barely budge the weight, and after moving the pin down another notch, not once, but twice, I became intimately acquainted with the backsliding price of my recent inertia. I would have to downshift my workout regimen to Plan B: Cut the Bull and Build Back Slowly. Okay, it’s more like plan BBB, but that acronym has other frames of reference that I’m not willing to butt buns of steel with.

For 45 minutes I meandered from machine to machine, reading instructions and trying out exercises. I did squats, presses and rows. I did pull-ups, curls and dips.  I was feeling right at home in this formerly unfamiliar world, a place where steroid-fueled he-men and narcissistic super women were noticeably missing in action. But what was also missing in action was my wife’s commonsense suggestion to take it easy my first time out.

“How’d it go?” Sherry asked as I came through the door.

“Really good,” I reported. “But I’m going to need a lot of ibuprofen the next few days.”

“What happened?”

“Remember when you said take it slow and don’t overdo it?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, I got caught up in the moment, went all out and completely overdid it.”

As Sherry shook her head in disbelief, my mind raced for something to say to redeem myself.

“At least I’m not like the guy who killed his shoulders misusing the ab machine,” I ventured lamely. “Now he can’t lift his arms and his poor wife has to feed him by hand.”

“You would lose a lot of weight in that scenario,” Sherry predicted.

My wife. She would make an excellent personal trainer. I wonder if she’s accepting new clients?

###

Occupation: Retired

 

Recently, unbeknownst to all but a handful of Alan Williamson insiders, I threw myself into one of the greatest challenges facing civilized men and women the world over: Filling retirement with purpose while pursuing the freedom to fart around. After a transitional period of blind wheel spinning and reckless snacking, I hit the restart button on my life and did the following.

I Embraced Minimalism.

What is minimalism you ask? There are many definitions, but for me it came down to choosing quality over quantity and eliminating the surplus debris that had accumulated around me through the years.  My music collection, for example, took some deep cuts with Paul Simon, Bob Seger and Van Morrison among the survivors, while Sheena Easton, Enya, and Sounds of the Everglades said sayonara.

Winnowing the book collection was an even bigger task, requiring a level of tough love normally reserved for parents ousting live-at-home children for irreconcilable unemployment. After some careful consideration, I kept the books that were under 400 pages and cast aside the rest. While this may sound like an arbitrary choice, you should know that my favorite book genre is the short story. In fact, when I get a book of short stories, I flip through it and read the shortest stories first. Sometimes I never get around to reading the longer short stories. Some may call this lazy. I call it a great love of short stories. The shorter short stories.

We Bought A Lake House.

After decades of living in the fragile habitat holding too much humanity called South Florida, my wife Sherry and I decided to sell our home and find an oasis of sanity and serenity elsewhere in Florida. What we found instead were places that were once unspoiled hideaways, but now were traffic-clogged growth areas. Then there was the other extreme: towns that are so off the beaten path and cheerless that even the cows were alcoholics.

One night as I scrolled through the latest listings on Zillow, the holy grail of housing appeared: a lakefront charmer on an oversized lot priced to move.  I knew that properties of this quality and value were rare but decided to keep a cool head so as not to weaken my negotiating power. After looping Sherry into the situation, I casually called our realtor and with a nonchalance bordering on indifference spoke these noncommittal words: “THIS HOUSE, OUR HOUSE, MUST HAVE!!”

Beating other buyers out was surprisingly easy – a little luck and timing go a long way.  Condensing 30 years of stuff to downsize into a smaller home is a different story. We donated, sold or threw out about 25 percent of our material possessions, which left 80 boxes of belongings to bring along. As I write this months after the move, 12 boxes remain unpacked, their contents the subject of only mild curiosity to Sherry and I. In other words, they’ve taken a backseat to other priorities, such as getting away from it all.

We Took A Road Trip.

When you’ve been through a major uprooting of your life and landed in uncharted territory where you know nothing and no one, the next logical thing to do is hit the road again. So we loaded up the SUV and drove through six states to visit Sherry’s family in Michigan. Road trips, of course, aren’t as efficient as flying, but as new retirees we had the luxury of slowing down and taking the scenic route. If you have the bad timing of driving through a major city like Atlanta or Cincinnati during rush hour, you will slow down to the point where it becomes possible to leave your car, tour a local museum or historic site, and return in time to drive another 10 to 12 feet.

Sherry and I have a system on long trips that works exceptionally well. We drive in three-hour shifts stopping to refuel, stretch our legs and use the restrooms. For the sake of our mental health, we have an agreement not to speak about anything we see in the restrooms, unless it involves an unsolved mystery where we might be able to collect some reward money.

During drive time, when either of us starts to fade behind the wheel, we take a slug from Sherry’s dad’s old coffee Thermos that keeps the java piping hot for 24 hours or 1,200 miles – whichever comes first. It’s always good for a laugh when we stop into a McDonald’s or Dunkin Donuts to get the Thermos refilled and the millennial behind the counter looks at it like we’ve given him a spare part that broke off from the space shuttle.

I Started Writing Again.

When we returned home from our travels, I was in the middle of writing a grocery list when it hit me. I missed writing. Not grocery lists specifically, but observations and reflections grounded in real-life experiences. Okay, also some shameless clowning and gratuitous wordplay.

The thing is, after decades of writing professionally, I discovered that it’s fun to do it as a retired guy. Maybe somewhere down the line this writing life could lead to diminishing returns, my vocabulary reduced to words that rhyme with “warthog.”

For now, I’m content to gaze out at the lake and wait for the words to flow. Salt Log? Art Blog?

“Honey… is there any coffee left in your dad’s Thermos?”

 

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THE MARJORIE SURGERY: How To Get Hip At 83

I’ve known my mother for a very long time. Using archival photos and anecdotal evidence, I’ve traced my relationship with Marjorie Williamson back to the time of my birth. So when she started complaining about hip and back pain that made it difficult to walk and disrupted her sleep, I knew something serious was amiss.

“It sounds like your underwear’s too tight,” I speculated, drawing on my vast personal experience as a purchaser of ill-fitting underwear. “I’ve had the same problem on and off for the last 30 years.”

“No, this is a different kind of pain,” mom asserted. “It’s so bad at times it brings me to tears.”

“Please don’t cry in front of me,” I pleaded, knowing my chances to console a weeping woman who happens to be my mother were feeble.

Flash forward nine months after a lot of painful hobbling, and mom scheduled hip replacement surgery. Looking into the procedure online, I found that approximately 400,000 Americans undergo hip replacements each year and that it’s been one of the most successful surgeries since it began. My mother took this information to mean she would have a high-speed joy ride from the operating table to pain-free living with a quick pit stop to put her feet up and pop a Tylenol.

“Every day, people with walkers, canes and wheelchairs have this surgery and experience outstanding outcomes,” I emphasized encouragingly.

“I can’t wait to be one of them,” mom smiled.

 “Still, the procedure comes with various post-surgery limitations and challenges that require round-the-clock professional care and support,” I conveyed, injecting a dose of reality to what lie ahead.

“I’ll probably need a little help for 48 hours,” she acknowledged, displaying a delusional optimism that is both inspiring and terrifying.  

To paint a not-too-gory picture of the hip replacement process, a four to six inch incision is made just below and to the outside of the groin. Two muscles are then pushed aside, giving the surgeon access to the hip socket. After a significant amount of sawing, tugging, yanking and advanced carpentry work, the natural hip is replaced with a metal and plastic implant. 

While some patients quickly get back to golf, tennis, yoga and other activities they enjoyed before their hip deteriorated, full recovery can take several months. Or to slightly adjust my mom’s projections, 48 hours … plus 90 days.

After kicking around the options for mom’s aftercare, my brother Jim and I worked out a tag-team approach where one of us would be with her at all times for the first three weeks post-surgery. Key areas of caregiving included:

- Pain management

- Medication distribution

- Food procurement and prep

- Physical therapy nudging and nagging

- Compression sock installation and removal

- Strategic phone answering and electronic device recharging

- Nighttime tucking-in-to-bed services

- Moaning and random vocal sound interpretation

“I travel all the way from Nebraska to Florida to help mom and all she does is sleep!” my brother ranted with mock indignation.

“I hear you,” I mock sympathized. “Next thing you know she’ll be asking you what’s for dinner.”

“Stir-fry,” Jim replied, suddenly serious. “When in doubt, always go with stir-fry.”

While tracking along well overall, Mom’s post-surgery road to recovery had a few early speed bumps, usually after a day where she overestimated her progress and did too much. 

I could tell what kind of a day she was having when I would say “Good morning” and she would say “Uhhhhhhhh.” Consulting my Moaning Interpretation app, I knew she was feeling a resurgence of pain. Such reality checks were uncomfortable, but useful learning experiences.

Let’s face it, choosing to have any elective surgery is no easy decision, even when you believe the end result is saying goodbye to pain and hello to a fuller, better life. At 83, I’m proud of my mom for taking that leap of faith and going for revival over survival. I’ve always admired her zest for life and youthful outlook as the years marched on.

As an active member of Team Marge, I look forward to rooting her on in her journey back to a pain-free pursuit of happiness. And because I have her best interests at heart, I will always recommend the least invasive solution to any future discomfort in the groin or pelvic area.

In other words: If the underwear’s too tight, a new pair can set things right.