Monthly Archives: October 2024

Jackie Wells-Fauth

When I was in my early 40s, I remember trying to pick something up and having a twinge somewhere in my back and thinking jokingly, “Oh, look at me, I’m getting old.”

Nowadays, I only have to bend over or move sideways–without picking anything up–and I’m reminded seriously of that bumper sticker which says, “I thought growing older would take longer.” It is a sad truth that I no longer joke about getting older and every day I am reminded more vividly that I am getting so very much older. And far from taking longer, it has all happened in the blink of an eye!

As our bodies begin to age, we all begin to make concessions. We begin to deal with ourselves to keep from facing the awful truth that age, that merciless witch, has caught up with us and she did it with all the speed of a sprinter. I sit down more carefully and walk more precisely than I ever did as a young woman and still, the body persists in showing that age.

I used to walk through a grocery store picking up things aimlessly and in no particular order. Today, I stand and debate with myself about whether I could really maybe get along without milk for another week because I don’t want to walk to the back of the store to pick up the carton that I forgot to get (memory–another age-related casualty) while I was at the other end of the store.

I avoid certain clothes in my closet because they require me to twist my body to get them on in ways that age now forbids me to do. I don’t throw away the clothes, mind you, because someday I’m going to feel better and exercise my way back to all of the moves that I didn’t appreciate when I was young. And of course, I never clean the closet because my body is no longer fond of that activity, if it ever was!

I like to think that I am meticulous about keeping my kitchen floors clean—always mopped them regularly. Old age has made me watch the dog much more carefully. If she is out in the kitchen, licking the floor, I figure I can let the mopping go for another day or two. And as for moving out appliances to clean or mop beneath, well, if the dog isn’t bothered by their condition now, I see no reason I should get excited about it!

When my children were babies I dreamed of going to bed early and not having to get up in the night. That dream has never become a reality. If I go to bed too early, the old body protests against too much time in a prone position and as for not having to get up in the night, well, most of us old people will tell you that we have a night light in the bathroom and it’s not just for show!

Each morning, I get up and do an inventory of what aches, is numb from an unwise sleeping position or just plain has shifted and sends up notice that its function has now changed and it won’t be performing all those menial tasks for me anymore.

In my 20s, I threw fits because my hair was so thick I couldn’t get a comb through it. Today, I have put away all of those worries and just hope I have enough hair to cover my head. I loved high, spiky heels as a girl, believing they flattered my legs. Now, I wear heavy sneakers and comfort myself with the fact that my legs are always covered in compression socks, so no one would see them anyway!

At 35, I wrote my first column/blog about getting old. It was a complete whine about having to face the problems of encroaching age. Now, at almost 70, I would like to go back and kick that idiot 35-year-old in the butt—except I can’t get my foot up that high. And I suppose, if I live to be 100, I’ll look back on this column and laugh at what I can still do now that I won’t be able to then! It is all relative.

So it’s true, I did think growing old was going to take longer and instead, it has happened in the blink of an eye. This thought was really kind of depressing me the other day and I confided to a colleague that “I can’t believe I got old so very fast.”

He looked at me, cocked his head thoughtfully and replied, “This is all very true. It’s not that much fun getting older…but the alternative is a lot less attractive. I’ll take aging.”

And there you have it; the aging process is all in how you look at it—whether you’re 35, 50 or 80. So, I’ll try to be content with my growing age, but I still say that eye blinked pretty darn fast!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

It happened again the other day. Roy had to buy himself a new reading lamp and after he had unpacked and assembled it, he asked that fatal question:

“Where are the lightbulbs? This didn’t come with lightbulbs.”

What he may not know (and should by now) is that his wife doesn’t come with lightbulbs, either. There is never a spare lightbulb in the house, unless it is lying unwrapped in the cupboard and cracked so that it will not light. As I was sneaking around the house, stealing lightbulbs from any available unlit lamp, I reflected on this fact. The idea that I am the keeper of supplies (known in the Army as the Quartermaster) is a little like putting a four-year-old in charge of the aspirin supply. I never know how much of anything we have and the chances that we are out of something is equal to the desperation for which we need it.

My shopping lists are usually very detailed. They give me everything I need when I go to the store. And while I am at the store, the shopping list is laying conveniently on the counter at home. That forces me to shop by what I like to call the “take a stab at it and rely on my ever more failing memory.” This is not a good method.

While things like lightbulbs and stamps and ink pens are neglected in supply at our house, I have at present four boxes of Zesta saltines, five and a half tubes of Crest toothpaste and enough eggs to feed an actual army if they came for breakfast.

I like to make jelly when I can get my hands on enough chokecherries. I know that sometimes lids are in short supply, so the fact that I have a kitchen drawer I can’t shut because of all the lids doesn’t surprise me. What I’m still trying to figure out is why I felt the need to buy four packs of a dozen jelly jars each—given the fact that it has been three years since I made jelly. Now those are at least useful. Having never been taken out of the package, they make an excellent place for me to store all the bottles of Super glue, hot glue and Elmer’s glue that I have drying in the basement. They also are great support for the two dozen glue guns that I keep in stock. You think I’m joking…I wish I was!

I try to make do when I must. I have found that those large Christmas light bulbs, of which I have dozens, fit into most of my lamps, so Roy is lucky that he did not get a red or green light to read by until I was able to re-stock regular lightbulbs. Too many crackers lead to a lot of soup (if I have any in stock) and the eggs can be used in any number of dishes, until I start clucking like a chicken and have to desist.

I can’t even imagine what life would be like for me in the quartermaster’s corps. My father used to describe the work he had to do to keep uniforms and equipment available for the soldiers in his unit when he had to serve on the supply line. He made jokes about the wrong sizes, wrong equipment, etc., but I have to say that had I been in charge, it would probably not have been funny!

Imagine we are in the forests of middle Europe. Guns are blazing, troops are advancing, and I am in charge of supply.

“Sergeant Fauth, we need more bullets!” would come the demand.

“I’m all out of bullets; I’ll have to go to the store. While I’m gone, just fire these tubes of toothpaste at them. Aim for the eyes!”

I would be demoted in a real hurry on that job. And when I couldn’t find any lightbulbs for Roy to put in his new lamp, I was demoted to undependable at my house as well.

I don’t see myself getting any better at this supply thing, so when I finally did get lightbulbs, I only got enough to fill his lamp, with one left over. That one is presently on a shelf in the bathroom…and I’m pretty sure I cracked it when I put it in there!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Roy’s phone did one of its funny little quirks this week, so he did what we always do when our technology fails: he called one of our IT guys. Now, it should come as no surprise to most people that I gave birth to two of the IT team and they married the other half of the set. And take my word for it, our IT guys are always delighted to hear from us…especially when everything must be done by phone!

The phone issue for Roy was a tough one and he had to use my phone to communicate with our elder daughter to describe what his phone was doing. Since she was at home, alone, with the four-year old computer trainee in the family, it made for an interesting conversation.

“It won’t show me my e-mail, and I like to get that on my phone,” he complained.

“All right, I need you to go into the apps and click on the Google app,” she said, while in the background, the little one was chanting, “Hi, Grandpa; Mommy, I’m saying hi to Grandpa.”

By the time our IT guy had sorted out what was wrong, handled the minor crisis or two that the little one had and convinced her father (customer) that he had to Face time her so she could SEE what was on the phone, I’m fairly certain she was wishing she was an orphan.

Her ultra patient customer service voice was very soothing, but I’m pretty sure that underneath it, she was thinking that she could send us poison through the mail, but then she’d have to explain to her sister why she had done it.

She shouldn’t have worried though. Her sister, another one of the IT support staff in our family, has also dealt with her parents and their issues. “Okay, is the computer plugged in?” You laugh at this question, but half the time, that’s the problem. “Well, now, try turning it off and turning it back on,” is the second step. This always makes me mad. Do they think we can solve a huge problem in technology by just powering down and powering back up…how stupid or naïve do they think we are…oh wait a minute, that worked!

The married half of the IT team has no better luck, although for each of them, the approach is different. Stefanie’s husband, Marty, once confiscated Roy’s phone for an entire afternoon, industriously inputting the locations and directions for the places we intended to visit in Germany. We had all of that set up in our GPS, so it was annoying that Marty tied up the phone the whole afternoon to do what was not necessary. We thought this right up until the GPS, and every other location device we had, failed us in a foreign country and we were hanging on the every word of the directions Marty had put into the phone. We confessed that it was very helpful and he, as any good IT customer service member would, kept his mouth shut and refrained from saying, “I told you so.”

Tracie’s husband, Charles, is the epitome of patience as well. Each time I buy a new laptop, he sets it up for me. He asks questions that I don’t have an answer for and he attempts to set up the programs I need without any help or suggestion from me. He has even, on one rare occasion, locked into my computer from his house and fixed a problem I was having. I am convinced he learned that trick during his computer magic training at Hogwarts. However, I am also convinced that he has mastered the art of mentally facepalming himself every time he asks, “What is your password for your server?” And I answer, “I think it’s something to do with cheese. Try that.”

It’s possible that all four members of our IT team get away from their work on our technology only to bang their head against a convenient wall, but so far, they have not refused our calls or sent us any bills. We will probably never master the fine art of technology, so it’s necessary for us to continue to make use of our IT support team.

The good news is that we have discovered that we have new trainees for IT support, since the two older grandsons are now almost as good as their parents at adjusting our technology. They aren’t quite as patient, however.

“No, Grandma, you didn’t do it right! Didn’t you listen to what I said?”  They will have to work on that if they want to be good IT guys.

Jackie Wells-Fauth

Before I begin, I should give the following disclaimer: I recognize how important medical tests and exams are. There is so much that the medical community can do for us and help us to solve using their potions and pills and machines and tests. That having been said, I feel years of being x-rayed, ultra-sounded, run through the MRI, having endured multiple thyroid biopsies and the ever-enjoyable colonoscopy, I have a right to try and find the humor somewhere.

So as grateful as I am for modern science, I’m here to tell you that the little blue box that allows you to screen for colon cancer “your way” is misrepresenting things and the yearly mammogram for women is really no picnic, either!

I was thinking about the mammogram specifically during my yearly screening this last week. For the men in the reading audience, I realize the word mammogram makes you a little squeamish and that is too bad; maybe this is the week you don’t read this article to the end. For the brave men and the women, however, I believe I have something worth sharing.

The mammogram has always freaked me out. The first one I ever had was the baseline and they did so many views, re-takes and follow-ups that I was pretty much convinced I was just going to die right there. The trauma of that one has stayed with me, so I admit, I drag my feet and try everything to put it off—don’t ask me why; I know it must be done.

When they finally get me dragged in there, it is in some ways even worse, because when it’s over, I have to wait for that phone call. You know the one. “Yes, this is the clinic, and we have the results of your mammogram…” I don’t want those preliminaries. In fact, if they could arrange for a phone ringtone that was like an “All-clear” button, that would put me out of my misery immediately. However, I realize that there is a certain professional protocol, so I just have to be happy if at some point, they say everything’s normal.

All of these feelings were present when I reported for this year’s mammogram. I took my book along as usual, because I have heard that anxiety is handled better if you have something to read while you wait. I have never read a book while waiting for a mammogram that I did not have to re-read later, but it is something to hold in my hands, so I look reasonably calm.

I knew it was going to be different when I didn’t have to wait at all and the technician doing the mammogram led me into her exam room where I discovered calm, soothing lights and party music playing. You can’t get too wound up with a girl who is playing party music in the mammogram room.

A friend told me recently that she is sure that the mammogram machine was concocted by a man, and she is probably right. They don’t look friendly at all. They look like a giant monster with a huge mouth ready to swallow you. Erma Bombeck once said that in order to prepare for a mammogram, a woman should slam her most delicate appendage repeatedly in a refrigerator door. I have never tried that, but I think of it often when I approach those machines.

I particularly hate that you have to stand there in a gown open down the front (every year I put it on backwards first, don’t ask me why) while the technician puts little stickies as markers for any moles, etc. These stickies are meant to cling, and they do. But this technician, as she was liberally putting them on, said, “I just got a new set of stickies. They are great.” Can’t argue with that kind of cheerfulness.

At last, we got to the actual mammogram. This fantastic technician announced, “Now, we are going to do what I like to call the “Mammo Mamba.” When I got done laughing, I discovered that she had a whole set of footsteps on the floor, showing me exactly where to stand and how to approach the mammo monster. Before I knew it, I had concentrated so much on where to put my feet in those dance moves, that the exam was pretty much over. Somehow, she made having the most delicate portions of my body awkwardly squashed, not quite so bad.

When I was ready to leave, she even gave me a prize for being so good. I got a string of gold, plastic beads. It didn’t occur to me until later that this was kind of like Mardi Gras: Women flash themselves and get bead necklaces. It didn’t matter, I was so happy to be done, that I even left the machine without calling it my usual bad names.

So, I got a good report, and I was happy about that. I really enjoyed the attitude and atmosphere set forth by that technician. The question remains: Now that I can do the Mammo Mamba, will these tests be better in the future? Not a chance!