Tag Archives: aging

TEN FEET TALL

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Okay, so maybe I was putting off my new gym routine workout.  Or maybe I was looking to add that ‘new hobby’ all the experts say is important at my age.  But the way I see it, that 8 year-old making baskets all by himself at the Y last week just needed a little friendly competition. . .and I was ready. 

 He was watching the six-foot plus guys play pickup.  His big-eyed stare lingered on every swoosh and lay up they made.  Then, with a slight sigh in his shoulders, he dribbled and shot a few hoops of his own at an adjoining basket.  Considering he stood little more than four feet, he was pretty darn good. 

 I opened the door and stepped inside.  He looked up at me as if I had just walked into the “Mens’” room by accident.  Naked.

 “Hey,” I said, trying to sound as normal and casual as possible.  “Want someone to shoot with?”  Imagining how out of place I must have looked to him, I was completely prepared for rejection.  To my utter surprise, his eyes opened wider and he said, “Sure.  Wanna play H-O-R-S-E?”

 Oh boy, did I.  Back in elementary school, I had a pretty mean “granny shot.”  Even the boys were envious of my rather impressive string of baskets made from the foul line.  Granted, that was 50 years ago, but still how hard could this be?  I had already lived more years than he weighed! 

 He didn’t pause for introductions or rules.  He just started dribbling like mad and banked the first shot right into the basket.  Then he threw the ball my way.  “Now you have to do the same shot I just did,” he said with a serious look.  I took a few steps and dribbled.  I eyed the spot on the backboard where I knew I needed to hit, and in it went.  “You’re not bad,” he informed me as I passed him the ball.  Then, he dribbled straight to the foul line.  When he missed, I actually heard myself breathe a sigh of relief.    

 Ten minutes in, we were tied at, “H-O-R-S.”  I figured that was a good place to stop.  We said our farewells and he went back to his own game with a slight lift in his shoulders.  I left feeling the same way and headed towards the dumbbells, (which are aptly named by the way).  Neither of us had the satisfaction of winning nor the deflation of defeat.  That’s a nice place to be.  Funny how ten minutes can make you feel ten feet tall.    

 * Read an interview with Helen in the September 2013 issue of Counseling Today. 

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TELL IT LIKE IT IS

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Interesting ride in the elevator this morning.  As the doors closed, I went to push the UP button, but the four year-old next to me beat me to it, hitting the DOWN one instead.  We headed down.  “DADDY!” she shrieked, “Why aren’t we going UP???”  “Because you pushed the DOWN button,” he said with a grimace of embarrassment.

Ah, indeed, one cannot go UP in life, if one keeps pushing the DOWN button and we do it all the time.  Don’t believe me?  Why do women lie about their age?  They do not want to face their actual years of living.  Why?  What makes 30 more special than 37?  Hopefully those 7 years were well-lived and they are proud of them.  Why not own them?  I knew a woman once who told me she had two children.  When I later learned that she actually had three,( a mentally ill son who had been institutionalized for many years), she said he, ‘didn’t count.’

Wow.  Everything counts.  Every ONE counts.  It all adds up to the beautiful, complex, crazy, wonderful puzzle that becomes our lives.  Sure some are messy, others splendid, but every HOUR of them are OURS.  Claim them.  Embrace them.  Flaunt them.  But whatever you do, don’t hide them or you will just go down.  Down, until you end up in the basement with all those people who declare that “50 is the new 40.” 

            What?  50 is not the ‘new 40.’  It is actually 10 years more beautiful than 40 could ever hope to be.  It has more gray hair, more lines, more experience, more disappointments and joys, and more stories to tell.  Which brings me to why I write this blog in the first place: celebrating older people.

Why aren’t they our FIRST priority?  They are living legacies and their time with us is short.  Why was Taylor Swift on the cover of Vanity Fair this month instead of Stevie Wonder?  She is awesome and I love her music but his work has affected the world longer than she has even been alive.  And while we’re at it, why are feisty, fifty year-olds advertising erectile dysfunction drugs?  Seriously, get a real, 75 year-old guy who can barely click the TV remote and put some believability back in advertisement.  When THAT happens, I’ll know America has its’ head on straight.  Till then, I’ll keep writing.

 

    

 

 

HELEN HUDSON HERE: DOG OR GOD

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I have tried hard to encourage my kids to use good judgment.  As teenagers, they still wrestle the difference between doing the right thing or going with the crowd.  And while this inner battle  may peak in the teen years, I still see its’ vestiges amongst my senior friends. 

 One, in her 80’s still dyes her hair because she’s afraid, ‘no one will recognize me if I let it go natural.’  Problem is, the dye has caused her severe scalp, skin, and now eye problems, which she continues to endure in order to keep up appearances.  Another still wears heels despite severe arthritis that has deformed her toes.  A 70-something guy I chat with says he’ll, “never discuss politics or religion,” because he’s afraid to let people know where he stands in case they don’t agree with him.  So, we muse about the weather or his aches and pains.  Another, in his 90’s says it takes him, “an extra half hour to get ready every morning, just to put on my pants and get my arm in my shirt.”  When I ask if it wouldn’t be easier to buy his clothes one size larger, he looks horrified.  “What would people think?” he scoffs. 

 Indeed.  What would people think if you actually did the right thing for you?  How horrified would they be if you made the happier choice for your own health?  How bruised would their egos be if you said, ‘No’ to that second drink you really don’t want?  What’s so wrong about talking politics and religion?  Aren’t you more likely to get in lively discussions and discover yourself and others more deeply? 

 It’s easy to look at your kids and say to yourself, ‘Why on earth are they so worried about pleasing that young crowd?’  It’s quite another to see those very same qualities in people decades older.  And for what?  An even more debilitating old age?  I figure if you want unconditional love and acceptance in this life, get a dog.  If you’re looking for it in the next, find God.  Frankly, I think a dog is God’s way of showing us we don’t have to be ‘all that’ to be accepted.  We just have to be us.

Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” now on Kindle.  IMG_0514

HELEN HUDSON HERE: DOG OR GOD

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I have tried hard to encourage my kids to use good judgment.  As teenagers, they still wrestle the difference between doing the right thing or going with the crowd.  And while this inner battle  may peak in the teen years, I still see its’ vestiges amongst my senior friends. 

 One, in her 80’s still dyes her hair because she’s afraid, ‘no one will recognize me if I let it go natural.’  Problem is, the dye has caused her severe scalp, skin, and now eye problems, which she continues to endure in order to keep up appearances.  Another still wears heels despite severe arthritis that has deformed her toes.  A 70-something guy I chat with says he’ll, “never discuss politics or religion,” because he’s afraid to let people know where he stands in case they don’t agree with him.  So, we muse about the weather or his aches and pains.  Another, in his 90’s says it takes him, “an extra half hour to get ready every morning, just to put on my pants and get my arm in my shirt.”  When I ask if it wouldn’t be easier to buy his clothes one size larger, he looks horrified.  “What would people think?” he scoffs. 

 Indeed.  What would people think if you actually did the right thing for you?  How horrified would they be if you made the happier choice for your own health?  How bruised would their egos be if you said, ‘No’ to that second drink you really don’t want?  What’s so wrong about talking politics and religion?  Aren’t you more likely to get in lively discussions and discover yourself and others more deeply? 

 It’s easy to look at your kids and say to yourself, ‘Why on earth are they so worried about pleasing that young crowd?’  It’s quite another to see those very same qualities in people decades older.  And for what?  An even more debilitating old age?  I figure if you want unconditional love and acceptance in this life, get a dog.  If you’re looking for it in the next, find God.  Frankly, I think a dog is God’s way of showing us we don’t have to be ‘all that’ to be accepted.  We just have to be us.

Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” now on Kindle. 

HERE’S TO THE ‘OLD’ NEW YEAR

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 New Year’s Eve finds me sitting alone in an old house dress with rolled up socks and the dog curled at my left hip.  As I reflect on the ‘old’ year passing in my final blog for 2011, firecrackers pop in the distance.  My teenagers are off with friends and my husband is long in bed.  So, before 2012 dawns, a few “Thank You’s” for these last 365 days:

 First, to my husband of 31 years who appreciates the ‘little’ things I do, like filling the espresso machine with fresh coffee every morning and holding up my half of the heart whenever we say, “Good-Bye.”  Every now and then I let him edit these—but not tonight.

 To my oldest daughter who begged and begged for that puppy that I never wanted last Christmas.  Your little Skylar, who has now become my sole responsibility since you left for college, has brought me unimaginable joy, laughter & companionship.  A year ago I would not have believed it possible.

 To my youngest daughter who reminds me often that I am old, thank you for sharing what young is really like in all its’ ups and downs.  You make me glad that I am exactly the age that I am.  Thank you also for showing me a harder way to do my piano scales.  It should keep my fingers nimble for at least a few more years.

 To Lorenzo, our church janitor, who brought me flowers on Mother’s Day but was never able to give them to me because I was a ‘no show.’  My Sundays are never quite complete without his, big hug.

 To all of the strangers who motioned me across sidewalks, let me merge in front of you in difficult traffic, or waved and smiled at me from a distance; the ones I chatted with in lines from Starbucks to airline counters or dressing rooms in clothing stores:  Thank You for those brief, joyful seconds.  Without the warmth and camaraderie from strangers, my days would be as empty as a soundstage from an old movie set.  No lights.  No camera.  No action.

 Finally, to the 2,000 new readers of my blog from America & Canada to Australia & Brazil:  Thank You for taking a few minutes in your day to share a part of mine.  May EVERY day of your 2012 be a photograph you want to take and keep close to your heart.

Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” a non-fiction memoir of her grandmother’s descent into Alzheimer’s.  http://www.helen-hudson.com.

 

 

 

TIME CHANGES EVERYTHING

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Everywhere you go nowadays you see ‘kids’ taking care of their elderly parents.  That wasn’t the case when I wrote, “Kissing Tomatoes,” 10 years ago.  At the time, publishers said, “Love the writing but no one will buy it.  Who cares about Alzheimer’s?”  Well, time changes everything. 

Just today, the woman in front of me at the pharmacy counter was waiting for her mother to write a check.  Dowager-humped and small, her shaky hand extended from a wrinkled, arthritic arm.  The wait for all of us was almost interminable.

Every few seconds, the daughter looked around nervously, then straightened her shoulders as if to keep herself from getting the hump her mother has.  She was so embarrassed holding up our line that I made small talk.

“Well, looks like you get to do all the shopping while Mom pays the bills.” 

She brightened slightly.  “Yes, we’ve always loved shopping together.  Just takes longer now.”

“No worries,” I replied.  “We’ll be there ourselves one day.” 

An hour later I dashed back to the same store for something I had forgotten.  The man ahead of me was turning his pockets inside out for change and holding a single bottle of water.

“I just need twelve more cents, right?” he asked in a nervous voice.  He was sweating and his face so flushed, that I feared he might be having a heart attack.

“Goodness,” I said to the clerk, “I’ll pay for his water.”     

“Oh no.  Can’t let you do that,” the man said.  “I have it here somewhere.”  He began searching his back pockets.  “I’m taking care of my mom,” he suddenly blurted.  “Never thought it would be this hard.  She’s driving me crazy.”

“How wonderful,” I replied.  “After all of those years she raised you, now you are caring for her.”

“Yeah, but the only problem is I can’t spank HER!” he laughed.

His car was parked next to mine.  As he jumped behind the wheel, I waved at the old gal next to him.  “Mom!” he yelled, “This lady just paid for my water.”  “How nice,” she said.  “And how nice that your son is looking after you,” I added.  “Oh, not for long,” she confided.  “The doctor said this thing I have will be over very soon.”  I glanced at the man.  He shook his head.  Yeah, time changes everything—especially us.

LOOK AROUND

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Know why I like old people so much?  They look like themSELVES.  There’s no airbrushing.  What you see is who they ARE.  The beauty of age is that time has written in everything exactly as you lived it, line by line.  If you were a joyful person, your face will be etched in tiny, smile wrinkles.  If you weren’t, well that sour look will be carved in and solid as rock. 

Look around.  Youth can fool you with all sorts of illusions.  Age just smacks you in the face with truth.  Truth is a beautiful thing.  And like Keats says, that’s all I need to know.  (http://www.helen-hudson.com)

SHHH!! DON’T TELL!!

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 While rinsing the chlorine off this morning in the YMCA shower, a gaggle of giggling little girls squeezed altogether in the open stall next to me.  Although several others were open, they chose to rinse off together.  Like spies on a secret mission, they peeked out from behind their vinyl curtain as if to be sure the coast was clear.  Then the giggling stopped and the whispering began. 

“My aunt is visiting us,” confided the first.  “She’s the one with the gray hair.  She is very, very old.. . .but don’t tell anyone!”

“Why not?” asked the smallest in a whisper.

“It’s a secret.”

“Oh,” they all seemed to understand at once.

Then one broke the silence:  “How old is she?”

“Oh, pretty old, I think,” the first replied.  “Like my dad’s age.”

“That’s not old,” piped the third.  “My dad isn’t old but his mother is REALLY, REALLY old.  She’s my grandmother.”

“All grandmothers are old,” added the fourth. 

“How come?” asked another.

“They have to be cuz if they weren’t we wouldn’t be here.”

At that moment, I turned off the water and pulled back my shower curtain.  As I stepped out, four pairs of very wide eyes looked up at me.

“You’re so right,” I told them.  “Without grandmothers we wouldn’t be here—and don’t worry I won’t tell anyone how very, very old your aunt is.”

“Okay,” said the girl, “Cause she would really kill me.”

“No worries,” I said, “Considering there are about 400 people out there today, I will never even know who she is.”

“Phew,” said her friend as I left.  “That was close.”

 

 

 

 

WALK LIKE A MAN!

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My husband ruptured a disc in his back several weeks ago.  Despite the many pain medications his doctor has proffered, he is still in agony and barely able to navigate from bedroom to kitchen.  So, on the eve of our 31st anniversary, I drove to purchase him a cane.   

As I parked at Walgreens, a very, tall man was getting into the car next to me.  Suntanned and well-groomed, I noticed that he still had some dark hair in his sideburns that refused to go white.  Figured he was an ex-athlete, likely basketball.  When I noticed he had a crutch under each arm, I assumed he injured himself playing sports.

“You look about 6’ 7”,” I said as we came face to face.

“I used to be,” he replied, “until I shrunk.”

It was only then I realized he was missing an entire leg.  At 17, while driving a tractor on his dad’s farm, he was thrown off into the oncoming scythe of the thresher.  Said he has a prosthesis but it’s “a lot more comfortable without it.”  No wonder.  Even without his leg, he moves like a WHOLE man.

As we part, I imagine what my own 17 would have been like with only one leg.  I was crazy for dancing and twirled and twisted across too many floors to remember.  While I can no longer do the limbo, I can still dance.  Made me walk taller just thinking about it.

Driving home with a new, blue cane for my husband, I am grateful he has both legs though he can’t use them well now.  I think of the woman I met with Alzheimer’s who cannot walk, not because she lacks legs, but has forgotten how.  I remember the boy I met in college who was born with no legs. 

At the corner, a young man with pants so low that I can see the heart tattoo on his right buttock, waits for the light to change.  When it does, he shuffles slowly across in the slouched-style of an old man.  I want to roll down the window and yell, “Walk Like A Man!”  So I do.  He straightens to attention as if shot by a rifle.  As his eyes meet mine, I smile and add, “While you still can.”  (Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,”a memoir of the years she and her husband cared for her grandmother with Alzheimer’s). 

http://www.helen-hudson.com