Aging Hands and Other Mishaps

They say you can tell a woman’s age by looking at her hands. Which puts me at about one hundred!  Let’s just say that my hands will never be models for a sculpture, unless it’s outside a skilled nursing facility.

Earthworm

One of my granddaughters once asked me why I had blue worms on the backs of my hands.  The veins are raised and twisted, in-between the now protruding knuckles. I gave her a lengthy explanation of what veins do, and told her she had them in her hands, too. The only problem was, we couldn't find them!

When I go for blood work, the lab nurse never fails to exclaim, “Oh, these are beautiful!” I look at her like she’s not playing with a full deck. Then she explains that I’ll never be traumatized by having a succession of needles poked into my hands (or forearms) trying to find a vein. And that if one collapses, I’ll have plenty of others to choose from. That’s supposed to make me feel better?  

There are operations where plastic surgeons inject YOUR OWN fat into your hands to plump them up.  The operation is a mere $5,000/hand. But then, I do have some rolls I’d like to get rid of! 

Almost as offensive as the veins are the small round bruises. I’m not even aware of doing it, but if either hand bumps against something, a small purple mushroom appears. My mother used to call them “age” or “liver” spots. She had to take Coumadin to thin her blood, then an aspirin regimen to replace the Coumadin. I don’t know if the blood thinners were related to the spots, but I take neither and my hands always look like a Jackson Pollock painting.  

Tonight my right hand sports a new wound across the thumb. That’s from cutting it on the door latch of my locker, while storing my golf bag. So in addition to the blue worms and purple mushrooms, I have a red badge of courage. The courage was just for going out on the golf course!

Then there’s the lump and blue/black bruise on my shin. I know I’m digressing from the hands, but it’s the same beat-up body. In a tennis match I whacked myself with my racket as I followed through during my serve. An ugly hematoma appeared instantly, and my opponents were gracious enough to let me sit with an ice pack for ten minutes so I could elevate the leg. The lump is gone, but the blue-black three-inch bruise remains. You can actually see the indentation of my racket against my shin. 

 I guess I could sit at the computer all day, or on the sofa. But my blue worms need exercise!

 

Support Hose

     Do you have sore or tired legs? Recently had a surgical procedure on your legs?
     Then compression hose are for you!
     They come in full or knee-length, different sizes according to your height, and either dress, athletic, or casual styles.
     There's only one problem: getting them on!
     I recently had a minor surgical procedure done above one knee. Since companies don't make support hose for single legs, Laurie, the doctor's assistant, asked what my height was. After I told her, she returned with a pair of skin-toned compression stockings and some thin rubber gloves.
     "These should fit," she said, "They're casual, and not too thick. Please wear them for two days, but take them off at night." She had a smirk on her face.
     The stockings looked like Pantyhose, with the standard construction of a strong elastic band at the waist and nylon covering the hips and buttocks thicker than the leg portion. If these were the thinnest variety, I pictured the thicker ones resembling an alligator's skin. "What are the gloves for?" I asked.
     "You'll see. First, sit down on the examining table so I can help." She handed me the gloves to put on, put another pair on herself, and sat on a low stool at my feet.
     "Many patients think this is just like putting on Pantyhose. It's not. The first thing you do is scrunch up the hose in your hands all the way down to the ankle. That way you can put your foot in without getting it caught."
     She handed me one scrunched-up leg. The flesh-colored nylon that filled my entire hand was at least three times the thickness of a Pantyhose. I slipped it over my foot.  So far, so good!
     "OK, now pull the hose up about six inches. It's much thicker than Pantyhose, so don't expect it to go farther than that. You'll have to straighten it every few inches. The gloves will let you get a firm grip." From the floor she helped the hose go north of my ankle. "You try the rest of the leg."
     The opening for my upper thigh was about the size of my fist. "Are you serious? I have to put that over my thigh? I feel like an elephant trying to get into a pail."
     "Keep working every few inches."
     At first I pulled so hard I thought the stuff was going to rip. Then I jumped down from the table and twisted. I squirmed. I thrashed. I got the damned nylon up to the middle of my thigh but by then sweat was dripping into my eyes so I couldn't see. Laurie was trying to stifle her laughter. She handed me some paper towels.
     "It is pretty funny," I said, sitting back down on the examining table. "I felt a twinge in my abdomen. Maybe I pulled a muscle there I didn't know I had!" The stocking was binding my thigh like a lasso pulled tight. "Maybe I've got some blog material here." I began to laugh with her.
     "Now the other leg," Laurie said. She left me on my own for that one.
     "Can I try it without the glove?" I asked, thinking I'd get a better grip with my very sweaty hands. It felt as if my first leg had a tourniquet around it. I began to feel pins and needles creeping along the seam and looked down to make sure the leg wasn't turning purple.
     "Sure, go ahead," she said.
     I removed the gloves and held them upside down. They dripped moisture as though I'd used them in a tennis match. I scrunched up the other leg all the way down and tried to put the wad over my foot. My hands slipped and my foot got caught half-way up the wad. So much for bare hands! I put the gloves back on, got my second foot in, and jumped down from the table.
     At mid-thigh level on the second leg, I felt as if I'd played three sets of hard tennis. "There's no way the rest of me is going into this opening," I said to Laurie, holding open the elastic that was supposed to go around my waist.
     She just kept grinning from the floor. "Just a few inches at a time," she said.
     My hips weren't the problem. It was my butt. I've never had a small butt, even when I was twelve years old. It's a wonder I was able to get off the ground during all the years I was a cheerleader! You would think the exercises I've done for years at the fitness center and all the tennis I play would have made it smaller.
     I began to do the twist, pulling the nylon over my butt first on the right side, then on the left. Laurie clapped from the floor. Next I pulled up the waistband and jumped up and down. Too bad I couldn't get a few jumping jacks in, but I'd had enough exercise for one day. "Just a few more inches," she said. "Maybe your husband can help you tomorrow."
     That sent me flopping back on the table in hysterics as I pictured Charley stuffing me into a sausage casing from the floor. "Are you sure I can't leave them on tonight?" I asked.
     "Trust me. You won't want to!"
   
   

   
   

Aging Gracefully

There is age with grace, but no such thing as "aging gracefully." It's an ugly process. In fact, I'm going down kicking and screaming!

Parts of my body are not where they should be. I wore two-piece bathing suits till I was fifty. Now I dread having to purchase anything to wear near the water. I must take a pile of swimsuits two sizes larger than my dress size to the changing room. They must have underwires in the bra. Speaking of the bra, if I tie the halter strings so tight around my neck as to actually lift my boobs, I am gasping for air. My butt hangs down below the suit and I must take it (the suit, not my butt) to a seamstress to have tighter elastic sewn in. My belly "pooch" will only disappear if I purchase a swimsuit with a blouse-like top. Yes, I know 10,000 steps/day will rid me of the pooch (what's in there, anyway?), and no, I do not intend to add an eighth day of exercise to my already overbooked routine!

I began noticing in photos that my right eye was only half open. So I figured the opthomologist would be able to measure the eyelids and lift the right one - a simple procedure, according to my friends. Dr. Wesley measured and informed me my eyelids were exactly the same and had not drooped. What had drooped was my forehead! That procedure is surgical and would cost a minimum of $5,000. And oh yes, the plastic surgeon could not assure me of raising the brow more than one-quarter of an inch!

I have acquired new parts growing on my body. I have odd-shaped lumps under my arches and on tops of my toes. A podiatrist informed me that they are benign cysts, created by the friction of certain shoes. And then there is the matter of the bunions. They are round balls sticking upward and outward from each large toe. My sister and I both inherited my father's feet. He used to insert a rubber wedge between his big toe and the next when he went to bed. I simply ignore them, but for vanity's sake, the bunions cannot go unfettered! I must choose enclosed fronts on my shoes or bands across the balls. The days of hubby giving me a foot massage are over, and who can blame him?

My hands have developed raised blue veins, and the bones protrude in-between. My granddaughter refers to the squirming veins as "blue worms." The same plastic surgeon informed me that I could inject each hand with fat to hide the veins (wonder what part of my body the fat would come from?). The cost would be a mere $5,000 per hand.

Parts of me have gone missing. Such as hair that is falling out. But I guess I shouldn't worry, since I am gaining it on my chin and above my upper lip!

I was born without three permanent teeth. I am lucky that is all that was missing! The holes where they were supposed to appear didn't matter when I was still eating baby food. Eventually, however, the teeth that did appear moved over into the holes, necessitating braces. Twenty years later, I needed bridges. And now, implants. Why bother, if dentures are next??

Choosing the proper foods and portions at this age is like being in boot camp. Especially with high cholesterol. Charley and I count our blessings that we do not have high blood pressure, heart disease, kidney disease, tuberculosis, diabetes, multilple sclerosis, hepatitis, shingles, Crohn's disease, Parkinson's, colitis, osteoporosis, hemorrhoids, rheumatoid arthritis, AIDS, or cancer. We are continually digesting complex carbohydrates (fruits and veggies, meaning a salad at EVERY lunch)), 100% whole grains, fish, and poultry. I begin drooling when I think of a medium rare hunk of steak! Peanut butter, cakes, pies, ice cream, frozen yogurt, candy, do not even enter our home. Cheesy or creamy sauces and pizza never enter our mouths. We snack on Reduced Fat Wheat Thins, hummus, granola bars, and fruit. One wine or beer is our limit before switching to water, juice, or soda. I still have the "pooch."

There is the matter of hearing loss. Charley claims I cannot hear him and I tell him the reason I can't hear him is because he has a pipe in his mouth, is mumbling, and is in another room. I claim he cannot hear me, even if I am in the same room. When I have to repeat everything, I simply get louder. Eventually, I am shouting. "You don't have to shout!" he tells me, all huffy. I ask him to get a hearing test, and he asks me to get my ears cleaned out.

Hot flashes are the worst part. Charley fondly proclaims that I have had them for twenty years, which is close to the truth. What would men do if they were overcome throughout the day (in dress shirt and tie) with a prickly rash, and waves of sweat? In our Florida apartment we arrive at a compromise: I keep the temperature low, and Charley wears a light sweatshirt. He is used to my pulling the covers up to my chin to protect against the blast of cold air hitting my side of the bed. He is also used to my subsequent thrashing to get those covers off about ten minutes later. His body is like a furnace if I cuddle against him, so I reach over with only an arm. Immediately I begin to feel a burning lightning bolt shoot through my limb. I count that as a good thing!

I saw an ad in THE SUN SENTINEL Sunday paper for a choice of nightgown or pajamas designed to help women "who suffer pain, night sweats, and other discomforts" to get restful, comfortable sleep. The nightwear comes in a handful of styles and colors and the cost ranges from $29.95-$69.95. I was actually considering looking at the manufacturer's website until I read further. The journalist tried the pajamas and felt the same old YOU-KNOW-WHATS! But maybe if I looked good, I'd acquire some grace???