I've been on antibiotics three times in seven weeks, twice for strep throat (currently) and once for a throat infection. I would blame my children but I don't have enough energy.
I woke up this morning barely able to make a squeak; I'd lost my voice. I freaked and went to see my doctor, a wonderful ears, nose, and throat man who's been peering down my throat and in my ears since I was 13 years-old. He wears cowboy boots, has a portrait of George W. Bush in his office; hunting licenses are framed and displayed prominently throughout his office and a collection of stuffed game hangs on the walls in the waiting room. He talks so fast I can barely understand him and he's called me "beanpole" since I was a kid. My kids think he's fascinating and I think the feeling is mutual. They always get the spoils of pharmaceutical rep visits; last visit Doc gave them each one of those lighted wands that physicians use to look up a person's nose.
I sat in his office opposite the wall bearing a giant preserved swordfish and waited my turn. The door to the inner sanctum of his office opened and a small, elderly woman wearing what was obviously a wig puttered through the door, assisted by her equally petite husband, who held her purse and beamed at her.
"She's doing so well," the little old man told Doc. He situated her in her seat before disappearing back behind the door to settle their bill. She raised her eyebrows at me in a nonverbal salutation and I smiled back. She was shaking a bit; she rested her elbow on the armrest and her forehead on her fingertips. It was only 10 o'clock and yet she was already exhausted. I could hear her husband and Doc discussing how well she was doing on the other side of the wall. I guessed that they were in their 80s, at least, and marveled at how wonderful it was that they both were in their twilight years together.
After awhile the door opened again and her husband announced: "Ready to go, hon?"
"That's all?" she asked.
"That's it! Let's get home." He offered his arm to her as she rose unsteadily and they shuffled together towards the door. I smiled at them as they left, as he opened the door and held it open for her, all while still holding her purse. He took such care with her and while neither of them could move very fast, he could probably out-shuffle her, yet he matched his pace with hers exactly and flanked her the entire time, hovering, protective.
"I'm so glad we did this," he said, their voices fainter as they made their way into the hall. I thought of all the times I've been sick (I have a weak upper respiratory system) and all the times that Chris picked up the slack unquestioningly; finishing the laundry, loading the dishwasher, placing a glass of water and my by my bed when I've laid in a medicine-induced stupor. I have no doubt that should we, God willing, make it into our latter twilight years, that we'll be shuffling along together, too.
I woke up this morning barely able to make a squeak; I'd lost my voice. I freaked and went to see my doctor, a wonderful ears, nose, and throat man who's been peering down my throat and in my ears since I was 13 years-old. He wears cowboy boots, has a portrait of George W. Bush in his office; hunting licenses are framed and displayed prominently throughout his office and a collection of stuffed game hangs on the walls in the waiting room. He talks so fast I can barely understand him and he's called me "beanpole" since I was a kid. My kids think he's fascinating and I think the feeling is mutual. They always get the spoils of pharmaceutical rep visits; last visit Doc gave them each one of those lighted wands that physicians use to look up a person's nose.
I sat in his office opposite the wall bearing a giant preserved swordfish and waited my turn. The door to the inner sanctum of his office opened and a small, elderly woman wearing what was obviously a wig puttered through the door, assisted by her equally petite husband, who held her purse and beamed at her.
"She's doing so well," the little old man told Doc. He situated her in her seat before disappearing back behind the door to settle their bill. She raised her eyebrows at me in a nonverbal salutation and I smiled back. She was shaking a bit; she rested her elbow on the armrest and her forehead on her fingertips. It was only 10 o'clock and yet she was already exhausted. I could hear her husband and Doc discussing how well she was doing on the other side of the wall. I guessed that they were in their 80s, at least, and marveled at how wonderful it was that they both were in their twilight years together.
After awhile the door opened again and her husband announced: "Ready to go, hon?"
"That's all?" she asked.
"That's it! Let's get home." He offered his arm to her as she rose unsteadily and they shuffled together towards the door. I smiled at them as they left, as he opened the door and held it open for her, all while still holding her purse. He took such care with her and while neither of them could move very fast, he could probably out-shuffle her, yet he matched his pace with hers exactly and flanked her the entire time, hovering, protective.
"I'm so glad we did this," he said, their voices fainter as they made their way into the hall. I thought of all the times I've been sick (I have a weak upper respiratory system) and all the times that Chris picked up the slack unquestioningly; finishing the laundry, loading the dishwasher, placing a glass of water and my by my bed when I've laid in a medicine-induced stupor. I have no doubt that should we, God willing, make it into our latter twilight years, that we'll be shuffling along together, too.
Somewhere between the sprint of youth and she shuffling of "the twilight years" I think you realize (hopefully) that this person you are walking beside is your best friend, favored companion, and hopefully, the joy of your life.
My wife treats me like a King. Well, maybe a prince. Okay, an overly dressed peasant. What I mean is that we "get" each other ... and we are so comfortable together these days (the last kid left a mere one month ago) that what I use to see as the "creek" of our love turns out to be the "Colorado River" in our Grand Canyon. Not ready to shuffle just yet. But when the time comes we'll be there for each other. And neither of us doubts the commitment of the other.
It's a nice place to find yourself in an upside down world.
Hey, Comrade Dana. These old peeps you typed about reminds me of my grandparents. My grandpa was probably the happiest guy I have ever known. In all the years I have known him I've never once seen him lose his temper with anyone that I can remember. That guy was unflappable...always laughing and cracking jokes about anything. When I was younger, I would always ask him why he was bald. He would tell me that he had once possessed a full head o' hair, but grandma had pulled it out every time she got angry at him! My grandma is very energetic at the ripe, young age of 89. And I don't just mean that her walking pace is a little brisker than the average elderly person, either. She still mows her lawn! I have been blessed truly with my grandparents. Anyways, Dana, I'm sorry your feeling under the weather. Have you ever tried drinking Thera-flu? I'll give you fair warning; it's the worst tasting thing I've ever drank, but I was feeling peachy keen an hour later. Take care, Comrade Dana.
This was such a sweet post, Dana. I absolutely love watching elderly couples. I could totally picture the story you mentioned, and it brought me goosebumps and even a few tears. I love this stuff...
That is so beautiful, many of us dream of the same thing (I think). I saw you Tweet last night about sitting under a mounted swordfish and now I know what you were really thinking about no sashimi but seniors. Get better and take care.
I always love to people watch and elderly couples are my favorite. They are what makes me strive to make my marriage a happy and long one. :o)
It is amazing as under the weather as you are you still can come up with an inspired blog. This was one of my favorites very insightful. I will pray that you heal and stay healed.
I love watching elderly couples being so loving together, too. I can only hope one day, me and my hubster will be like that. Hope you are on the road to recovery soon. ((HUGS))
Has your doctor threatened you with the magic of removing the tonsils? He sounds cool, so I wouldn't be suprised if he didn't...
You & your children seem to be professionals in the art of catching illnesses and have had your quota for, well, your lifetimes. I hope you feel better soon!
What a beautiful story!