“Feeble” versus “not feeble”

“Here I am again,” I say to lifeguards at the Canandaigua YMCA pool.
“Another feeble attempt to stave off aging.
I know I’m not supposed to say ‘feeble,’ but as long as I stagger in that pool, I feel my attempts are ‘feeble.’”
For perhaps the past six months I have been doing aquatic therapy in the Canandaigua YMCA pool, attempting to improve my balance, which is dreadful.
I had a stroke 24 years ago, and have been unable to balance on one foot since. I also can’t do the closed-eye model-walk with hands out front.
Don’t know as the stroke is why, since I got back to running, bicycle and motorcycle.
I was told bicycle and motorcycle are miraculous, but they both have giant spinning gyroscopes called wheels. Get above 5 mph and they balance themselves.
But things seem to have deteriorated recently. I fell hard on ice a couple years ago, and more-or-less never recovered.
We X-rayed my knees, and determined my left knee was bone-on-bone. I was advised knee-replacement.
At least a year of hobbling passed waiting to replace my knee.
That was finally done two years ago, but balance problems persisted, or even worsened. Occasionally I fell.
Now, perhaps because of aquacise, I no longer fall as much. But I feel that’s paying maximum attention to where I step — avoiding roots, rocks, and pavement edges that could trip me.
I still lose my balance = start toppling over. I can usually catch it. I also usually catch stumbles.
People tell me I walk much better. Maybe so, but I still start toppling, and can’t balance on one foot.
I have been diagnosed with “neuropathy,” wasting away of nerves to my feet. I still feel pain if I stand on something painful. But supposedly neuropathy is why my balance is bad.
Yet I keep hammering at it. Don’t know as I’ll ever be able to model-walk, or stand on one foot.
All I know is I feel fairly confident walking on dreadful footing, e.g. walking my dog at the park, or chasing trains — where rock-ballast awaits.
I can avoid falling, but feel that’s paying attention to footing.

Self-perception versus age

“Oh *****,” I said audibly.
(Again, no names. I don’t want some creep hittin’ on this lady.)
*****, a high-school classmate of mine when we graduated in 1962, had just posted a recent picture of herself on Facebook as her profile pik.
***** and I are Facebook “friends.”
She still looked good, but hair dyed. It probably woulda been silver by now. Mine is.
It may have been a wig — I hope not. My wife had to switch to wigs after all her hair fell out with anti-cancer chemo.
She died almost five years ago. I miss her immensely.
***** was still thin, but visibly pushing 73. I think her birthday is July; mine is next month.
I hope she doesn’t get wind of of this — I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.
***** was probably the majordomo of my high-school class. She was daughter of a school-board member, and aced all her courses.
She married her high-school sweetheart after college, a guy who was a star end on our football-team.
I think she was named our school’s academic or humanities scholar; another dude was named science scholar.
Our high-school, feebly attempting superiority to others in northern DE, didn’t have a Valedictorian or Salutatorian. Instead we had an academic or humanities scholar, plus a science scholar.
Our graduation processional wasn’t Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance;” Too conventional.
It was Purcell’s “Trumpet-Voluntary.”
Our high-school served the ritzy postwar developments in northern DE.
Many of the residents were elitist Dupont engineers.
Like Rochester (NY) was once Kodak, Wilmington, DE was Dupont.
At that time we lived north of Wilmington. We moved there when I was 13.
My father wasn’t a Dupont engineer. He worked for a new oil-refinery.
Unlike *****, I was just a clueless bottom-feeder, no idea what I was doing.
I was in low-level College-Prep because I wouldn’t do shop.
I would be guaranteed matriculation at University of Delaware, as all Delawareans were at that time.
Like most I’d flunk out during first semester, and thereby become fodder for the Vietnam war.
I would have none of it. I knew U. of D. would be a disaster, and wanted to remain alive = no ‘Nam for The Keed.
I also knew U. of D. would be impossible because I’d be staying home. College-level work in a madhouse was clearly not possible.
So instead I matriculated at Houghton College (“HO-tin;” as in “hoe,” not “how” or “who”), 360 miles away from home, in western NY.
That was a compromise with my hyper-religious father, a super-long story not worth doing at this time.
Much to my surprise, I was welcomed with open arms. Unlike my childhood, adult authority-figures valued my opinions, instead of telling me I was disgusting and rebellious.
Things were touchy at times, but I graduated, first in my family to earn a college degree — although I think my father coulda, had he not come of age during the Depression.
I met ***** at my 50th high-school reunion, shortly after my wife died. The reunion was in northern DE.
I learned ***** had been a computer programmer before retirement.
Well of course! She was just like my wife. Smart enough and savvy enough and self-driven enough to figger out some contorted programming glitch that sent things awry.
I probably coulda done that too, but other things were interesting; mainly train-watching. (I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2.)
I found ***** has a Facebook, so one night years ago at home I began looking for it.
Lots of bare-chested hussies with maximum cleavage named ***** *******, but they were clearly not *****. ***** had class.
Weeks passed; I was getting nowhere. I wasn’t looking every night.
Then one night I stumbled upon *****’s Facebook. I almost immediately sent her a “friend” request.
Surprise-surprise; she accepted. She allowed she only had a Facebook for family.
Okay, I hardly look at Facebook myself; I only have 56 “friends.”
I don’t bother her much; we don’t have much in common. Anyway, I’m borderline insane, and she’s not.
But she reminds of my wife, and we both play with computers, perhaps me more than her.
Hers too is a MAC. (Dread!)
Another friend, with whom I graduated college in 1966, and I have been having a discussion about self-perception versus actual age.
This was prompted by another friend sending a photo of me receiving a medal from Houghton’s president at my 50th class reunion last year.
“Is that me? Yow-zuh! I look horrible!”
I get this at the Canandaigua YMCA too.
I encounter full-length mirrors before starting aquatic therapy in their pool.
Again, Yow-zuh!
One’s self-perception is more-than-likely not the same as reality.
I may still feel youngish, but I’m an old geezer.
I stumble along, and people pass. All but oldsters.
I also now have a Handicap-tag. (I only requested it as a result of my knee-change.)

• My wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012.
• “The Keed” is of course me, “BobbaLew.” (See above.)
• Houghton College, in western New York, is from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I graduated a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college.
• “MAC” is Apple MacIntosh. All my siblings have Windows PCs, and loudly tell me Macs are toys. The fact I use one indicates I’m rebellious and stupid.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA, now doing aquatic therapy twice a week in their swimming pool. Supposedly this will improve my balance, which is awful. In-my-humble-opinion it’s bad because of leg-strength having withered away.

“Excusez-moi”

....Or perhaps I should shout Hex-KYOOZE me! For applying pencil to paper to prove my brain ain’t failing.
I had a horrible dream the other morning, that I was at the Town Clerk’s Office, and couldn’t remember why I was there.
The clerk tried to humor me into remembering, but it wasn’t working.
I explained I had a stroke and sometimes have difficulty getting words out.
It’s called aphasia. It can make people unable to talk at all.
With me it’s slight, but enough to make people say “Wassa matter? Cat got your tongue?”
This didn’t seem like aphasia. It was a brain-fart, a so-called “senior moment.”
I woke up worried my brain was failing.
I remember what a thrill it was to come home after my stroke and find I could still write.
Certain things got vaporized.
Nine years of classical piano training went away. I can no longer play piano.
I suppose I could, but I’m not interested. Too much trouble.
I used to have perfect pitch. I may still have it; but I can no longer hold a tune.
People were horrified I wasn’t singing as my father was lowered into the grave, but I couldn’t do it. I had to explain to the pastor I couldn’t hold a tune.
I also can no longer draw. In college I drew ’55 Chevys until I was blue-in-the-face. A feeble attempt to get proportions right.
What I needed was a side-elevation photograph I could section.
My ’32 Ford five-window looked pretty good, done that way.
But now my hands are too spastic to draw a straight line, even with a straight-edge.
Again, not interested. Too much trouble.
What I can do is sling words = write. Although I have sloppy keyboarding. But word-processor computer software helps.
Mistypes get flagged as misspells.
What a joy it was to find word-processing could let me write = something I enjoyed doing anyway.
I may be wrong, but I consider my ability to still sling words indicates my brain isn’t failing yet.
But I am getting older. “Now why did I open this refrigerator door?”
“What did I do with the cereal? Maybe it’s still in the carton — I’m capable of that.
Nope; not there.
Why there it is, on top of my chest-of-drawers. Right were I dropped it.”
I don’t go out without checking the stove first.
Brain-farts all, that come with advancing age. But I can still sling words.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)