N.B. This article comes with a health warning.
Do not ever, ever, ever give in to the temptation to read medical articles in newspapers or magazines. They will drive you doolally, if you’re not halfway there already.
Most importantly, resist the temptation to tick the little boxes of so-called ‘health tests’ printed alongside, guaranteed to scare the pants off you. They invariably dictate, 'don’t drink, smoke, or put on weight; check your blood pressure regularly, keep active physically and mentally, get enough sleep and don’t get depressed'.
These are counsels of perfection, unachievable for the ordinary Joe (or Josephine) burdened with assorted cares and responsibilities, a hearty carbohydrate-loving appetite, a sweet tooth, fond of a snifter, a big night out and a tendency to be a bit of a couch potato, viz. one who considers any or all of these valuable contributory factors to their quality of life.
Who ever gives honest answers anyway – even face to face in the doctor’s surgery, under the sceptical eye of one’s own GP?
Furthermore, some of these features promote cockamamie alternative therapies for gullible people with more money than sense, planting doubts in the minds of the perfectly healthy and (coincidentally) making ‘wellness’ a multi-million-pound industry. Oh, the power of ‘suggestibililty’! ‘Wellness’ is the new religion. One wonders how our forebears managed to live and thrive without it.
Medical advance means we’re all lasting longer and ‘experts’ express concerns that we ought to regulate our habits for an optimum level of quality of life in later years.
There comes a point in everyone’s life when the body declines from its former vigour, but fortunately, most bits can be mended or replaced. I know I’ve already cost the health service a fortune in spare parts.
The greatest dread of the elderly, the bogeyman that haunts their dreams, is losing their marbles.
It’s only natural that the parameters of life shrink as one ages. One acerbic wit described it as “the joy of not going”.
The appointed evening arrives. It is wet and cold. The decision coin must be tossed. Is it to be all dolled up for an evening of doubtful enjoyment? Or the seductive comfort of cosy slippers and a classic Inspector Morse? Gossip after the event reassures you, “Ya missed nothin’.” Should it be “Ya missed a treat!” the pangs of envy soon subside.
There are endless advisory pieces published on how one can slow the slide into forgettery.
My eldest brother is a crossword and sudoku fanatic. He says it keeps his brain agile. Presented with any kind of puzzle, except a jigsaw with a picture on the box, my brain freezes over. Number games defeat me entirely. Thirty-five years of teaching mixed infants means I can’t go beyond take-away sums with carrying.
Brother Dear, stumped by a particular crossword clue, asked me, “What do you call that thing that isn’t a dictionary?” My mind went blank. Neither of us could remember. Back home, the first thing I saw was the ‘thesaurus’ that is my bible and lives on the kitchen table. There’s nothing more frustrating and anxiety-provoking than a word hovering just beyond mental reach.
The serial ailments of ageing are legion. We become fascinated by the state of our own health, exchanging symptoms with contemporaries as if in a poker game. “See your irritable bowel syndrome and raise you my dickey heart valve”.
Serial forgettery is another anxiety. Days, dates, appointments, events are scribbled on fluorescent notes stuck to the hall table. Open the front door to a brisk breeze or the postman and it’s like a ticker-tape welcome.
Losing things that are in plain sight, decades-old memories remain vivid in every detail, recent events are irretrievably erased. Meeting people you know that you know, but unable to dredge up their names is a new social embarrassment.
Deep sigh… Individual days seem long, but weeks hurtle by. I realised the inevitable brain rot had set in when I bought a pair of ugly comfortable shoes – but I don’t go out in them. I’m not that far gone… yet.
