Getting Old

I've never seen my life in such a hurry - But if I start to worry - I get left behind

It's just a party, but you don't get invitations - and there's just one destination

You better be on time

For years of rhyming couplets - And we sang 'em two by two

Now we hardly rhyme at all - but here's a few

And if they heard there's bullets left to bite on

Don't wait up - Leave the light on - I'll be - home - soon

-Chris Smither

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a quote about old age online that's not chipper, philosophical, and upbeat?

Every morning I write this blog I poke around a little for a passage that fits the theme of whatever I sense I'm about to write.

What's on my mind this morning? A trip to Texas in the morning to help figure out a solution for Mom's deteriorating situation, unable to walk to the bathroom or get out of bed without help, sometimes confused or aphasic, spending her days either in bed or slouched in a recliner in front of her big screen watching news or the Hallmark Channel at a hundred decibels, always dressed in a night gown and bathrobe.

She's not all that old at 77, but it's hard to picture an older way to live than this. From college professor and author to this tiny life. And it's not going to get any better, there won't be a rally into a new and meaningful season for her. We used to sit talking and planning for how we would fix this malady or that, with a goal that might involve driving or taking herself to lunch with the ladies. Those fantasies are gone now. The best we can envision is palliative, not restorative.

And Dad's pretty much in the same boat, head lolled against the side of his old wingback chair, wheelchair alongside, watching OAN or Fox News and railing at the liberals when he's really just angry that it wasn't so long ago that he was running up and down stairs at the Ford dealership, acting as the wise and funny old guy who seemed to know how to do dozens of things that befuddled the youngsters around him.

Now Dad has climbed his last stair, smoked his last cigarette, taken his last ride behind the wheel. Just as with Mom, our conversations until fairly recently centered on getting him walking and able to go to the grocery store, but after a huge spine surgery a few months back did nothing for his mobility at all we don't indulge in that kind of specious optimism. Dad's going to die in that chair, or in bed where he sleeps until midday every day. And he knows it. We all know it.

But by the looks of what's out there on brainyquotes or goodreads or any of the other online replacements for Bartlett's, you'd think old age is just some new adventure where a creaky body and a grateful heart make it the sweetest season of all. For most of us, however, it seems more likely we'll end this ride sitting in a pee-filled diaper wondering what the hell just happened. That describes most of the old folks I'd visit as the hospital chaplain in the hospice or long-term care wards. There's nothing pretty or dignified about it.

So, that's what is on my mind this morning as I prepare for my flight to Dallas tomorrow. In the midst of it all, I'm getting crushed with neediness from clients and other lawyers as the great post-pandemic thaw reopens the floodgates at the courthouse. This time next month I'll be walking into court for my second trial in six weeks, after not trying anything for over five years. And then there's another trial maybe two months after that, a federal court doozy with a judge who's known for having zero tolerance for bumbling. And I'm doing it with a staff that had never been in trial before a week ago, leaving me feeling like the surgeon who walks into the operating room and learns the CRNA and scrub tech and circulator and PA are all there for their first case ever.

But it's even worse than that--what if all those folks in the OR had never seen a surgery, never been trained what to do in a surgery, and the surgeon has to look up from the incision every couple minutes to explain that the forceps are those little thingies on the tray, and would you mind handing them to me please?

It'll get better as we slog through one nasty legal encounter after another, but for now it's all pretty bad.

And at 57, I don't feel like doing this anymore, wouldn't want to do this even if I had a crack team of paralegals and associates to handle the grunt work. I'm getting older too, and that wingback chair and diaper are just around the corner, probably accelerating in their approach because all this work means exercise is a thing of the past--I just can't afford to get up from my chair and do anything that isn't moving the ball forward in one of my 60-plus cases.

P keeps suggesting I step back and find a sustainable way to practice and to live that doesn't involve days of speed-dating between my files and nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering what ticking time bomb I've missed in a case I haven't thought about in a while. I'm just having trouble stepping outside the problem and seeing a path that doesn't involve more of the same. It's a failure of vision on my part--I've always been pretty good at radically revamping my existence and taking chances, whether that might involve leaving the military to go to law school, leaving law practice for academia, or starting this life with P now spread out among multiple venues.

Why can't I think my way out of this one? It's frustrating.

But for now it's time to take a quick shower and get ready for my first call in a few minutes, with a verbose co-counsel who'll keep me on the phone for an hour having a ten minute conversation about a motion on which we're collaborating. She won't see that while we're talking I'm scrolling through the news online or shopping for a sailboat I'll never buy because the last thing I need is one more toy to insure and maintain. Just zoned out, and all the while feeling the finish line coming on like a freight train.