Senior Daze

by Katie Bourg

About Katie: Having arrived in time for the Great (?) Depression, WWII, and all other 20th century problems, I am endowed with long and varied memories. Writing classes have long been my home away from home. Other people's stories are fascinating, and sharing is growth at its best. Hope you seniors will join me with your stories. Try it. You'll like it.

Sundays are never going to be the same for me. No matter what the subject matter, I always waited for the last of "60 Minutes." I was addicted to Andy Rooney. He echoed so many of my own thoughts. I know the world has moved on, and is not what we knew it to be. Whether or not that is progress remains to be seen. Like Andy, I have never completed the transition, and don't plan to do so now. We were a generation that much was asked of, and we sometimes find it hard to accept what the youth of today expect. But their day is coming, and then maybe they will begin to understand the value of a funny master curmudgeon like Andy Rooney.

I wish the folks at "60 Minutes" luck. He won't be easy to replace.

It finally happened! I've known for years it was going to. The doctor found a way to mess with my routine, and leave me spaceless.

My pills have been increased again. My pill pack is overloaded. The last two elongated devils will not fit in. As my indifference increases my need for my beloved pill pack has grown. My once-a-week habit of counting out pills has been disrupted, and I may never get all that garbage down my gullet again.

I may not even know what I missed from one week to the next. Will it be the one that minimizes my aches and pains? Or the one that protects my innards from the pain the last one brought on? Or the one that lets me sleep through hurricanes? Maybe the one that protects me from the need for Depends...or the one that calms me down and diminishes my bad behavior, so I don't have to make amends.

My memory sometimes slips a cog, but I still remember going through this with my husband, Gus. His brother referred to this fist full of colored rocks as his 'morning salad'. Gus had other names for it, but I don't think I want to mention them. I did become irritated enough at the time to write a rhyme about the whole mess.

As morning dawns we rise from sleep

To take his pills, all six feet deep;

One to regulate his heart

Some so he won't jump and start

Jerking thru the dark of night

Giving both of us a fright.

Little pink ones, Coumidin

Counted carefully, for him;

Three to make him pee away

Half the night and all next day;

One to coat his stomach lining

(None keep receding hairlines shining).

Then, to insure his heart won't stall

One little white Atenolol.

Then there's Multi, C, and Iron

Designed to keep his soul from harm.

Now added to this garbage bin

Three times a day, is Insulin.

It takes both of us to count

All this medicinal amount;

They fuss because he loses weight

I feel compelled to simply state

With all he swallows to stay good

Where is there any room for food?

And that's the way it is, folks. But who has time to complain? Not me. I'm too busy.