Old age has crept slowly upon me, almost unnoticed, certainly unacknowledged, until these last few months. I find more excuses to delay small jobs, or to avoid walking too far; where once I held lightly to the banister to keep balance, now I grip it firmly as I descend, stomping my feet stolidly step by step to avoid a fall that now would be fatal. I grip it hard going up to, to pull my heavy body against my weakening legs and painful knees, keeping my head down to see each tread with a sigh as I crest the top. Walking has become a slow shuffle, feet hardly clearing the ground and catching all too readily on any slight obstruction or irregularity. I have not tackled anything steep for a long while for slight slopes have become as hill sides, making the breath heave as though running. Dog walks have become slower and shorter, but happily the dogs can still bound off the leads and run far further than I could ever walk.
My grip, too, has weakened to the point where Ann has to loosen the caps of water bottles by my bedside since I once woke with my mouth dust dry, but could not open a fresh one. On a recent trip to London, I had bought a container of screenwash to top up the car, but the car park was empty as I searched for someone to open it. Finally, I saw a man approaching from the lift. He seemed to see me but veered off so I moved to the other side of the pillar to intercept him; but I was wrong, he kept straight on so I suddenly stepped out from behind the pillar to confront him, waving the can before him, and asking if he'd do me a favour by opening it. He looked surprised, but did so willingly, even asking if I needed help to pour it into the tank, though I refused this. Afterwards, I wished I hadn't because I didn't screw the lid back tightly enough, and when later Ann and I returned to the car, we were overwhelmed by the smell of antifreeze from the nearly full contents of a five litre can that had completely soaked the carpets.
My memory is lacking in so many ways; I struggle to recall names, and swear Ann hasn't told me something when almost certainly she is right to insist she has. I go on errands, but will always forget something unless I write it on a comprehensive list of "things to do". All my life I needed glasses for distance, a great disadvantage when sailing in heavy rain, yet now my eyes alone seem to have improved with age. Although the acuity must be less, the lenses have settled into a relaxed position whereby I can see with six-six vision without needing glasses; but this advantage has come too late to be truly beneficial.
We have just read the book "The Seven Ages of Death", by the forensic pathologist Dr Richard Shepherd. I cannot recommend it too highly, despite its title, for he is a wonderful writer with a brilliant command of English and well worth reading for its medical insights and descriptions, despite its gruesome nature. He quotes Shakespeare's seven ages of man, with old age the sixth age: "His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide for his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, turning again toward childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound." But the seventh age is: "Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history is second childishness and mere oblivion; sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." This is extreme old age, and awaits us all least overwhelmed by some earlier misalignment of our genes or accident. Once so remote, now lurking round the next corner, it draws ever nearer but not with regret or sadness; rather I find with a joy for each new day I'm given, wherein I can still walk and see and enjoy a great book, even one about that great and final leveller, old Death himself. "As Terry Pratchett might say, "STEP THIS WAY. THE DOOR NOW IS CLOSED." (For non affectionados, Death always anounced his presence in capitals, with a deep resonant voice).
