Lessons In Growing Older

My 42nd birthday was last week. It’s crazy how these birthdays keep happening, faster and faster every year. And as they move faster, other things start to slow down. Like my metabolism and reflexes, digestion and remembering my multiplication tables. I find that my joints hurt more, I can’t stand up without a little limp, and my feet shuffle more than they run.

Honestly, I’ve never been one to worry about getting older. I’ve enjoyed the years. I hope I have a lot more of them to come. But the problem of birthdays lies in the fact that I don’t think my mind has caught up with the years. My mind never agrees with the number of birthday candles on the cake. My mind stays stuck somewhere in the past – a time when youth was on my side. 

This problem is so bad that when people ask me how old I am, my mind shouts out “23!” before my body can say “42”. And when the number 42 comes out of my mouth, my mind laughs a little – like what a good joke to tell people I’m so much older than I actually am. 

And then I stop and realize I am 42 and it’s always a little bit of a shock, a punch in the gut to my 23 year old mind. “What? Is this really true???”

It is true, I tell my mind. Remember Sliding Rock? 

Ah yes – Sliding Rock, the golden place for young people. It’s a haven for those who don’t know about mortgages and insurance premiums. A giant nature-made water park in the beautiful mountains of Arizona, where those who have lived less than three decades go to frolic and play in their blissful youth. 

It was the whoops of laughter that drew me in. Watching kids and teens and barely adults slip and slide down rocks made smooth from flowing water. It looked like so much FUN. The sun was dancing on the water, calling me to jump in. Enticing me with it’s sparkle and rhythm.

Seize the day! My mind told me. Live! Dive in! You’re 23!

So I took the plunge before I remembered that I, in fact, was not 23 at all. 

As soon as that icy cold water washed over me and I began to slide down the first rock, my body screamed out “Stop! You forgot you were 42!”

Within seconds, I had analyzed all the parts of me that were in danger of snapping in two. I had calculated my deductible and how much money it would take to put me back together. I felt every bump and knew that giant, blue bruises would soon appear and that I wouldn’t be able to sit down in a chair for a week and a half. My body turned into some sort of stiff board that refused to bend and flow like all the other young bodies I saw around me. I was going to die within seconds, I just knew it.

As soon as I came to a stop, I stood up. Shaking from the cold water, I looked around for the fastest way to get out of that death trap. My kids were standing on the edge of the water, pretending not to know me. Scott was shaking his head and laughing. The youth were stacking up behind me ready to slide and it was then that I realized with a sinking feeling that I had no way out. 

The rocks were too slippery to walk on. The water was rushing past my ankles making my balance questionable. And there was no way on God’s green earth I was sitting back down to slide to the end. I looked around, desperate to get out. 

That’s when a young man, probably in college and hanging out with his buddies on a sunny afternoon, stood on the rocks and reached out his hand to me. 

“Ma’am,” he said. “I can help you out if you give me your hand.”

I stared at him and managed to sputter, “I’m just so c-c-c-cold.”

“I know,” he said in a soothing voice that I’m sure he used with his grandmother. “It’s ok. Just give me your hand and I’ll help you out.”

It hit me in that moment. I’m old. I’m old and this college kid is talking to me like an octogenarian who has fallen and can’t get up. While my mind was screaming “You’re 23!” the rest of the world was seeing a middle-aged mom who was creeping toward the elderly side of life. It was one of those moments that seemed to happen in slow motion – the realization that I have slipped on over to the other side. 

I smiled at the young man, still standing there with his arm outstretched.  And then I did what any self-respecting woman at my age would do – I refused his hand and got down on my knees. I belly crawled my way out of that misery and up the rocks to safety. I wrapped up in a towel and thanked God that I had made it out alive. No more crazy adventures for this 42 year old. 

Later that afternoon, I ordered a large pizza and mozzarella cheese sticks for dinner. I signed up for an off-road jeep tour. I contemplated a horse-back riding class for when I returned home. While my body had not yet recovered from the morning rock sliding fiasco, my mind was back to being 23 again. 

I guess that’s the best thing about getting older. It’s so easy to forget. 

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One Lucky Dog

It’s pathetic, really. The way we gush and carry on over a stray mutt. 

But she’s our stray mutt – and I would argue that she is probably the most well-loved and pampered mutt across this country. Or at least in the southernmost states. 

The vet tells us to make up our own breed for her – she’s one of a kind. Of course, we already knew that. Her fine pedigree causes her hair to be wiry all over, with the exception of the top of her head where a fluff of hair sticks up proudly like a mohawk. Her tail is curled and poised like a show dog’s, but her ears are floppy and too big for her small face. Her chin has gray hair so scraggly and long that it appears she is trying to compete in a goatee contest, and her frame is too small for her tall legs. In other words, she’s perfect. 

Grover Mae doesn’t know how lucky she is, although we try to tell her often. She doesn’t realize that not every dog gets hugs and kisses until it becomes obnoxious. She doesn’t realize that not every dog gets to choose where she will sleep at night – a cozy dog bed nook, or snuggled in between the pillows of a comfy couch, or even better, on top of her human’s legs in a bed that was once only meant for people. She doesn’t realize that not every dog gets a birthday party, complete with a home-made cake and cards. 

No, Grover Mae spends her days happily chasing squirrels and begging for doggie snacks, not once stopping to think about how her life could have been so different. 

If we hadn’t decided to keep her. 

But we did. We couldn’t resist her the day she wandered into our backyard, skinny and shaking. Amelia threw her toddler arms around Grover Mae’s flea infested neck and cried, “Can I keep her?” with all the emotion a little girl can have. We relented to that tiny but strong-willed girl, and bought the dog a blue collar since we knew it was a boy. Hence the name Grover (we later had to feminize it after a quick check from the vet who was disappointed in our knowledge of dog anatomy). And then came the sickness with worms, and even worse, Parvo. And a stay in the doggie ICU. And lots and lots of dollars later. 

Perhaps Grover Mae could have never found our yard that day. And she would be so lonely without us. She would never know the love that comes from somewhere deep down, the love that is shaped out of pure joy and selflessness. She wouldn’t know that she was missing out on all the hugs and kisses and snuggles on the couch. She would never understand all that she was losing by not being with us. 

I tell her all of this as she sits on the couch beside me in the early hours of the morning and I stroke her belly. I tell her how wonderful her life is because we are in it, how lucky she really is that we saved her all those years ago. I tell her that she would be missing so much if she weren’t here and how life is so much better with humans in it. 

She looks up at me with these perfectly round, big brown eyes. She cocks one floppy ear slightly higher than the other. She lets out a little whine to tell me she knows the truth. 

She knows who saved whom all those years ago. She knows who would be so lonely if she had never shown up that day. She knows who the lucky ones are. 

“Good,” I tell her as she settles back down on my lap. “I’m glad we have that straight.”

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The Faces

Dear Son, 

Tomorrow will be 8 years since you have been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. It doesn’t seem possible, really, that it’s been almost a decade since that day. But time has an amazing way of moving on. I guess it’s God’s grace to us – that we keep having days and nights and seasons and years after a nightmare. 

I thought that by now the memories would fade a little, but they haven’t. I still remember every single detail. I remember the way you looked at me in the doctor’s office when you asked me what was wrong with you. I remember those blue eyes of yours opening up wide when I told you that we were going to have to take you to the hospital.

I remember driving in pounding rain and thinking that the sky’s tears were no match for my sobs. 

I remember the numbness I felt in the hospital room. I remember hoping that other people were praying for us because I had no words in my heart. I remember curling up around you in the hospital bed, my arms wrapped around you and my shoulders folded in over you, like I could somehow protect you from what was to come with my body.

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.

I remember the shots. All the shots. I remember you asking how long you would have to have needles jabbed in your arms, belly, and legs and I didn’t know how to tell a 5 year old that it would be for the rest of his life. I remember you thinking you only would have diabetes for a short time, then you would be well and have no more needles poking you.

I remember the day you realized this would never end. 

I guess those memories will never shrink for me – they will always trigger fear and helplessness and anger. And maybe I’ve subconsciously made a choice, all these years later, to try to not let those memories take hold of me and control me. I can’t give them power anymore. 

So now before I think of the tears and the pain and the grief, I remember something else. When I think of your diagnosis day, I remember the faces. I see our doctor’s face, sad but kind as he told me we would be ok. I think of nurses’ faces in the emergency room, smiling at you and telling you how cute you were. I think of a doctor who we had never met before staying late and waiting for us at the hospital, her face stern but caring as she walked in the room. I remember the emergency room doctor’s face, assuring us that he would do everything possible for you to begin this journey in a positive way. That he would not scare you or hold you down or traumatize you with needles. 

Do you remember those faces too? I hope you do. Because those faces were the faces of God that day. And I don’t want you to ever forget that. I want you to remember that when the light was taken out of our lives, the faces gave it back to us. 

During that awful time, I thought God had abandoned us. I thought He was far away and that I would never see His face again. 

Son, I was so very wrong about that.

God was there, shining His face on me as He does to all of us. That day His face was brown and pale and old and young and dark-eyed and blue-eyed. Of course I didn’t know if was His face then, but now I can see it so clearly.

I’m sure you know by now, but there will probably be other bad days in your life as you grow. It won’t always be happiness and good times. But when those days come, I want you to do one thing – Look at the faces that are helping you and showing you kindness and surrounding you with love. Look hard at those faces to make sure you remember. And if you stare long enough, I bet you will see the face of God.

Love, 

Mama

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