Tales of an Octogenarian

Age to a happy man can be unnoticeable.

I keep returning to the old age stuff; not sure why but I’m sure why. It’s because I am an octogenarian. Or maybe it is because of what Casey Stengel said, “Most of the people my age is dead.”

Or maybe it’s because I consider myself a professional mourner. We seem to go to a wake or funeral every two weeks.

I can’t complain because I get around much better than I ever thought at this age. I can’t complain because I've managed to deter hospitalization. I can’t complain because I am growing with my grandchildren.

I have been blessed; partly related to daily exercise, partly to genes, and mostly due to luck. When I was in medical practice, I sat in my office to a never-ending line of sick people, and wondered, “How fortunate I’ve been. Why haven’t I contracted anything yet?”

I’ve never been a lazy person, though recently I have been looking for the next meal, looking at more television (couchy, sometimes grouchy), and even looking for a nip of scotch, something I never did. In looking for the next meal, Roger Angell said he was a “table potato.” OK, I fit.

I said to Diane, “I bet it’ll be neat to have a snort of scotch just before supper.” I probably saw a TV ad, listened to a friend; something about ‘medicinal’, or heard some chatter at the restaurant that gave me the idea. It wasn’t original.

“Well, go buy some.” And off I went. I saw a hefty bottle of Johnny Walker Black on sale. “Hmmm. Why not?”

First, a one-finger pour because I liked saying, “I’ll have a one-finger pour, neat.” It was neat and it sounded neat. Now I squeeze just a little more; enough to reach the bottom line of The Providence on my Providence College gift glass. “Lookin’ more like two fingers to me.” A familiar voice in the background.

The time changed with the pours; first at six o'clock, then five thirty, now at five. “Lookin’ like you’re snorting earlier and earlier.”

“It’s a pour.”

“It’s that medicinal thing we seniors like to do. It’s OK,“ said my friend, the connoisseur.

Please, please, readers, do not profile me as an expounder of alcohol. This is all tongue-in-cheek, not a recommendation.

I had my cataracts done. Everything now is bright, crisp, and clear. My son said, “You thought you hit the golf ball out of sight. Now that you can see, you realize it’s right there, not so far.” The ophthalmologist laughed when I told him that. I didn’t think it was funny.

Oof, that early morning look in the mirror is rough. “Who is that guy? How did he get that old?” Forget brown spots. They’ve been around for a while, and I’m used to them. Now I have this once invisible, now blue visible vein rivering alongside my temple. What the hell is that? How and when did it come? Overnight? Things seem to happen during the wee hours. Ya wake up with stuff.

Decades have passed by. So quickly. Wait, Wait. I was just thirty, no forty, no fifty, no sixty, no seventy. What the f___?”

In stark contrast to the early years, which moved like molasses in the days when I wanted my driver's license, and then later when I wanted to have a beer legally.

Old age has increased my desire for conversation, and for meeting longtime friends for coffee, lunch, and golf. “There is no hope of joy except in human relations,” Saint-Exupery says.

Fewer friends remain. I am grateful for those I can lunch with or join for golf. We chat. We repeat earlier escapades that prolong our meetings.

There is satisfaction in knowing that you can recall and retell the past while at the same time anticipating the future for however long it may be.

My taste for intellectual pursuit seems to have increased with these advancing years. There is something to learn every day. To keep my brain from gathering dust, I write, go to conferences and lectures, serve on a board, and surround myself with smart people like my breakfast group, The Retired Old Men Eating Out. Yup, you got it; ROMEOs.

As Saint Exupery said, “ . . . there is no hope of joy except in human relations.”

Busy years blur and flow together.

Octogenarians dispatch a thought like a pony express rider, hoping it will carry mail to the next stop at someone’s cortex, and that it was said sensibly, with meaning.

“Getting old is like standing in a long, slow line. You wake up out of the shuffle and torpor only at those moments when the line moves you one step closer to the window.”

― Wallace Stegner, The Spectator Bird

I encountered a vital, vibrant 80-year-old patient some years ago. In the innocence of youth, I said, “Eighty. You needn’t worry. Age is just a number.”

She looked at me, twirled her ring with two fingers, tidied her smock, squinted, pursed her lips, at up straight, and responded, “Young man, I have the number. I suggest you not say that again to an elderly patient.” Lesson learned. I never did.

Now, I have the number, and I am pleased to say that no one has called it “only” a number. Yet. And I do not believe that 80 is the new 70. Baloney! The years are in the book. In trying not to think about being an octogenarian, I keep my brain from molding by writing, reading, and attempting a new challenge; the latest-- piano lessons. I don’t need to travel on the next space mission. I’m already on a planet with a full agenda.

Memorizing stuff, good stuff helps. Over the past few years, I have attempted “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” “The Owl and the Pussycat,” and “Casey at the Bat (‘Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.’).” I also have a few limericks in the queue, but the titles and content prohibit public sharing.

I try to do happy things . . . golf, follow the grandchildren, light television, theater, dining out, meeting friends, small talk, reliving the past (the fun parts). Conversations can be interesting and amusing . . . ailments, best doctors, pill competitions, bowel musings. It’s rewarding when friends ask my medical opinion.

Age to a happy man can be unnoticeable.

With a spiritual shovel, I bury prickly past decisions. They never go away, but they get blunted when you realize that nobody cares, and history is just that, history. I’ve made room for, and accepted, loss, grief, disappointment and mistakes.

Names are sometimes vacant, my opinions are often mossy, and I retell stories as in “Yes, Papa, we heard that one.” Perhaps eating spaghetti with a slurp is OK, but not if the slurp simply means being older. That’s it. The age slurp.

I feel energetic, but the power plant gets low on energy fast, its lights flickering by eight o’clock. Sometimes when I walk, I stop to ward off foggy lightheadedness that sneaks up on me. The mornings’ aches are like trying to start a car with a low battery. Or ride a bike that needs oil. That’s it. Spring is near. I’ll get out the old bike I bought at Benny’s. What a deal for $100.

Does any octogenarian wish to be younger? I do. I contemplate, and I am frightened by, the prodigious thought of the three-digit age. Oh, I’ll worry about it tomorrow.

“Wisdom comes with winters,” said Oscar Wilde.

Ahh, good old Seuss . . .

I think I’ll start counting birthdays backward. It’s part of a mental status exam anyway.

© 2025