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Old Guy Photography


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The Old Guy … Ageing Comfortably … My %% $#@$ …

I am not ageing comfortably …  and these are supposed to be my “Golden Years”. I’m supposed to be ageing much like a fine wine resting in a climate controlled cellar … well … golden years my %% $#@$. My aches, pains and hurts have multiplied, and I have bruises, scrapes and cuts that I don’t remember when and how they were acquired. I can barely walk and my memory has become quite suspect. Yeah … Golden years …

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Old Faithful … My Coffee Cup …

I just don’t have a handle on this thing …

I have often said that there’s not a thing made by our wonderful industrial society that I cannot drop, tip over, or give an impromptu bounce test. Just a few days ago, I dropped my favorite coffee cup. We had shared morning sunrises for years on end. And the old weathered cup was featured in many of my photographs. I couldn’t believe it when it lay in pieces on the back porch.

Then I dropped my Baxter’s Coffee House cup. Its unique and distinctive fluorescent green glass broke in so many pieces super-glue wouldn’t be helpful in getting it together. A full cup of fresh brew was a secondary and regretful loss. On and on mishaps gathered around me like the plague. My hands have seemed to lose touch with their primary function which would be gripping objects of interest, want, comfort and or need.

I have become without question a fumble fingered old man with a clumsy unpredictable cloud hovering over his head. Thank goodness many condiment jars and bottles are made of forgiveable plastic. The don’t bounce well, but fortunately don’t break or shed their contents all over the kitchen floor.

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The Old Guy … Front Porch Ageing …. With Style And Grace …

Another coffee cup had “Peace” written all over it. It seems ironic that such a sentiment met a violent end.

I think my natural clumsiness is amplified by the ageing process. I drop everything and it gets to the point of being embarrassing and exceptionally frustrating. Things carefully placed, but still falling out of the refrigerator is another bone of contention. Does everything dropped have to land face down or automatically have the lid pop off?

Faulty trouser zippers and rectal tremors …

And speaking about bones of contention, I have so much trouble with faulty trouser zippers. More than once a wonderful visit to the grocery or favorite eating establishment has been spoiled by the realization that my trousers were in the unzipped position the entire time I was in the business. Delayed embarrassment is still embarrassment … and probably the worst form of ‘I didn’t know’ inappropriate public shenanigans.

But … not entirely my fault. I have been zipping zippers since I was a very young short individual. I am well versed in the mechanical workings of metal teeth meshing and unmeshing in harmony close to delicate, and highly valuable, personal parts. One mishap makes you “EDUCATED” and forever aware.

I do not think all of the instances of wanton exposure are due to my temporary ineptitude. There’s probably a design flaw there … somewhere. Yep … an undiscovered hideous design flaw that relishes the opportunity to get a good one on an Old Guy.

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A Comfortable Fabric Covered Chair At The Coffee House …

And …it must be an age thing … that when I get comfortable somewhere like a coffee shop or other small initiate type business, I begin to get rectal tremors, which soon lead to involuntary rectal emissions. This sort of behavior is not supposed to be enjoyable in polite society. The highly noticeable condition often lingers on and on as soiled fabric chair cushions have a long memory.

If someone ventures close, it is best to not make eye contact. The embarrassment factor, if discovered, is at the top of the charts.

Retirement at times has been somewhat comfortable. Leisurely mornings spent in the front porch swing pitching peanuts to the Blue Jays remain memorable. But … recurring chest pains, diabetes, bad knees and legs, diabetic nerve pain, rectal tremors and other ailments certainly subtract from the Golden Years.

Ageing comfortably my %% $#@$. I know life is not a promise of ease, leisure and reward. But … hey … a little slack in the program, please. Once or twice maybe the buttered bread should land face up, or coffee isn’t spilled all over the kitchen floor or front porch. Maybe just once when getting into the car, I don’t spill hot coffee down my light-colored trousers or a full dinner plate doesn’t slip off the table into my lap.

Maybe just once …  the Old Guy comes out on top …

 

Next Week Or So … Something Interesting or something current …

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The Old Guy … Hospital Melodrama..

Hospitals seldom change. I can wheel myself into a corner of the main lobby of the local hospital and watch without notice a grand menagerie pass slowly by. No matter the time of day or night, the procession of young and old, stepladder generations, wild children with no social limits and the bewildered trudge back and forth. Their expressions once of distinguished notability and individual independence, in time merge into a blurred grey commonality. I join them because it is necessary …

Tense Moments ... Waiting For Transport ...

Tense Moments … Waiting For Transport …

It is a familiar occurrence … my Sweetheart had great difficulty breathing and an emergency room trip was necessary. Upon arrival, she took a bad turn and lifesaving measures were taken. She was put on a machine that breathed for her, IV lines were started, and a collection of drugs were administered.

She was knocked out by one of the drugs and prepared for transport to another hospital in Somerset, Kentucky. This was required since the local hospital didn’t have kidney dialysis equipment.

I followed behind after gathering items which were needed concerning a prolonged hospital stay, feeding the Gretchen dog and locking the place up. When I got the the hospital, my Sweetheart was already in her intensive care room. I slept in a chair in order to catch the early morning doctors rounds, and any scheduled procedures such as first thing in the morning dialysis treatment. There is nothing like hospital chair sleep … it is noteworthy being that it is routinely interrupted by everyone employed by the hospital. Really, blood drawn at three-thirty in the morning?

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Resting Under Sedation …

She lies in fitful sleep in a bed and city not her own. I shutter seeing the multiple IV lines in her arm. She is so small and fragile and it grieves me to see her this way but there is nothing I can do except answer rapid questions asked in a sense of extreme urgency. Yes, no, yes, no … same as last time … I feel like a marionette’s puppet.

Early morning dialysis and I am chased out of the room. In four hours I can return and best be on time if she is awake. With the extent of her dementia, she often looks for me near the end of her treatments. If I am not there, I am announced as untrustworthy, disloyal and much worse. Her accusations just roll off me because I know the extent of her medical and mental conditions, but when strangers are around, I get some looks that are often laced with suspicion.

Days pass slowly. Tedious boredom compounded by the hours passed staring into the hallway or the television. Medicines and labs, doctors talking cautiously … it is the fuel of a place with uncountable small horrors yet to come out from a cabinet. I am fortunate, this time, that I am only a visitor.

I can almost wheel around the length and breath of this place with impunity … but I see more than I wish, and grieve for the man in the room next to my Sweethearts … he passed away in the early morning hours. After breakfast, a man from the local funeral home slowly wheeled a cart down the hallway. On top of the cart was a long red velvet bag.

Going home day is a masterpiece of profound boredom multiplied by severe, but fairly managed, impatience. We are veterans of the procedure, by way of going through the ritual too many times in the last two years. A half-dozen doctors have to sign off on my Sweetheart’s discharge and the last doctor is often late or hard to find. It would seem that discharge day follows a time tested script or demands the execution of a required course taught in medical or nursing school.

Getting home was wonderful. But … haunting my thoughts is the realization that the next trip back to the hospital can be only a struggled breath away …

 

 

 

Next Week … Something Interesting or something current …

For Additional Photographs Click on This 500 px Link …

For More Additional Photographs Click On This Flicker Link …