GETTING OLD

   Julia, the impulsive spoiled daughter of the Emperor Augustus, has a way of annoying me until I give in to her demands on my time. I told her when she insisted on pushing herself into my consciousness that I had other things to do. "But you have kept me away for so long. How many things can you have?"
   "I am working on n essay or story or something, and I need time."
   "Tell you what, Jewellee, take a few days and get done with it. We have things to attend to. We're not getting any younger."
   "And just what in Hades do you know about getting old? How old were you when you died? Now me. I am old."
   She agreed to give me a few days to deal with whatever I had to deal with, but she did not do it with grace.  It's a bitch getting old. "The Golden Years", to my way of thinking, occur long before seventy. And the asininity of 'Come grow old along with me; the best is yet to be.' This was surely written by some young person and it assaults the sensibilities of the'old'.  Addressing this topic is my project shared below..
                                            
                                                     *                   *                     *

   “Focus!  Focus! You can remember if you just focus,” the pert young woman standing at the foot of the bed said. “Carlie, you can remember if you just focus.”

   The audacity! How dare she call me Carlie? My kin, of whom there were few and my friends of whom there are even fewer could call me Carlie.  But not some ‘just out of diapers’ chubby child.

   Unfair, deranged, out of touch you think?

   Bull shit, I say.

   As to remembering.  Oh I do remember. I remember. Maybe not always accurately, for time and subsequent events keep gnawing at the edges of memories.  But I remember!

   Not where I am, not why I am here. But I do remember.

   This girl was chubby—an extra twenty five pounds I guessed—but to be fair she was not just ‘out of diapers’.  Somewhere in her twenties. “Now Carlie,” she oozed sincerity. “try to think.”

   “I am Carlie to few people. You are not among  the few.”

   She scurried to secure a small notebook from the pocket of her tie dyed tunic. “Mrs. Campelo.”

   “Ms, if you please.”

   “Ms Campelo, can you remember why you’re here?”

   “Remember why I’m here? I don’t even know where I am.  At this point why seems relatively unimportant, don’t you think?”

   Her downturned lips, her stifled sigh, her rolling eyes assaulted my senses. “Tell me , dear,’ I stressed the ‘dear’. “exactly where am I? When I know that we’ll investigate the ‘why’.”

   “In hospital emergency.  Dr. Thompson is attending you.”

   “And  who is Dr. Thompson?”  
   “Your Doctor, Carlie.” She drew in her breath, held it, and breathed out with what approached spitting. “Your Doctor, Ms Campelo.”

   “And just why am I here?”

   “That’s what I need you to remember.”

   Focus! Focus! I can remember if I focus. I can remember if I have a hint. “ Exactly who is Dr. Thompson?”

                                         *                          *                           *

  Growing old is a misrepresented process—either bemoaned or glorified. Too few of us see it for what it is.  Like an August day in southeastern Virginia.  Morning arrives cool and fuzzy. Events of the morning, met with eagerness and determination, slow down for the ‘same ole lunch’ and the ‘same ole self- imposed quiet time’.  Farther south, among old and young and those with much more humanity, it’s called ‘siesta’.  Afternoons, taken on with less resolve, yield to the day’s mounting heat and humidity. Darkness restores the cool; sleep refreshes body and spirit weary of the day’s struggles. Morning arrives cool and fuzzy.

                                                 *                           *                 *

    I study the face of my inquisitor whose patience is clearly struggling to remain intact. Was I ever that young? My attention to the sharply defined edges of her lipstick was interrupted. A new inquisitor was there.  ROSELEA her name tag said. I wanted to protest for she had none of the features of either a Rose or a Lea. Fifty if a day, round at the middle.   Lips thankfully unpainted, avoiding jagged edges which elicit pity from the empathetic, scorn from those of us who daily face this assault to our media imposed identity.

   “Ms Campelo,” she said stressing the Ms. “You are fine. We can find nothing wrong.”

   “We who?”

    “Oh, I am sorry. I am Roselea Thompson.”

   “Dr. Thompson,” I said remembering hearing the name from my baby-faced nurse.

   Her smile oozed tolerance. “Nurse Practitioner.  As I said, you seem fine. You did take a nasty fall. Nothing seems broken, I’m happy to report. But you were unconscious for some time. We’d like to keep you here overnight to evaluate.”

   “Evaluate what?”

   “Any possible problems our tests couldn’t reveal.”           

                                                            *                    *                *                                             

     Overnight can be a life time, when you have nothing to do but think about ----.  Focus, focus I told myself as my thoughts flittered from the day I kissed Marvin Goss out behind the barn, then my first job in Charlie’s Bean Barn, the fluttering of my heart on my wedding day, the Saturday dinner parties never over before midnight, sometimes nearer dawn.

   Focus! Focus! I rang the call bell. “Can I help you?”

   “What day is this?”

   “I beg your pardon.”

   “What is so hard about that? What day is this?”

   “Tuesday.”

   “Tuesday the what?”

   “The fifteenth. What can I do for you?

                                   *             *             *            *

Tuesday the 15^th.  I have a lunch date. Every mid month Tuesday since ‘forever ago’ my group had met for lunch.  My group.  If I were fifteen or thirty or maybe even fifty, they might be called my gang. At seventy-five ‘my group’ seemed more fitting.  We went back a long way, long before Tuesday lunches. Late night meetings gave way to early night meetings.  Then after retirements freed up our days, except for the medical appointments, which at our ages are  common occurrences, came the Tuesday lunches. This Tuesday, it seemed, was shot.

   Unless! I rang the call bell.   “Can I help you?”

   “ Can I get out of here before noon?”

   “I can’t see how. The paper work alone takes a while, and we can’t start it until your doctor releases you.”

   A while! And how long was a while?

   I sat up with minimum effort.  A few steps from my bed was a sink, next to the door into a bathroom. Above the mirror over the sink was a placard.  DON’T RISK A FALL. GIVE US A CALL.

   I pressed the call button. “Can I help you?”

   “I need to pee.”

   “You have a bathroom just steps from your bed.”

   “And a sign that says Don’t go without calling for help.”

   “Someone will be right with you.”

   Lucky for me I did not really have to pee for no one came. Not by the time I stood in my own clothing outside the emergency ward door awaiting the cab I had called.  Again lucky for me.  I had not forgotten to bring my cell phone. Else how could I get a cab?  In my whole life the times I had hailed a cab I could count on one hand. And to be fair most were with my husband. Once in Athens when we were going to the airport. Once in Tunis for the same reason. Once in Paris to go to the Rodin museum. Once in Florence to get back to my hotel after a tiring day of sightseeing. Once in San Francisco.

   Buses, trains, my own car, usually with my husband driving, was my way. “Where to?” the driver asked.

  ‘Focus, focus,’ I told myself. ’Where are you going?’

  “Is this Tuesday the 15^th?”

   “Yes ma’am. Where to?”

   Focus, focus. It’s Jeff and Nancy’s time for lunch. “1080 Cedar Drive,” I said. “I have a luncheon date.”

   He took his time, fumbling with the meter setting, studying the map on his GPS screen, talking on his radio about “some possible problem” with an address. “Exactly what do I do?”

     A terse response sputtered from the radio. “Address checks out. Take her to that address.”

   A buxom young woman took my arm as I stepped out of the cab. “Carlie, where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you. The hospital called and said you left without being released.  What have—“

   I did not have time for her foolish questions. “Who all is coming today?”

   “Come now, Carlie.  Let’s get you back to your room. You should have waited to make sure you were all right.”

   “I’m here for the Tuesday luncheon. Jeff and Nancy are expecting me.”

   “Come along, Carlie.” And then to the driver to whom she handed two bills, “Thank you,.”

   Focus, focus. This was the right day wasn’t it?  Or had I gotten my dates mixed up?

    The double doors to the RIVERSIDE ALTZIMERS CARE CENTER opened. Carlie  was escorted in again.