Coming Attractions

My recent surgery, which took place exactly two weeks ago to the minute as I write this, not only repaired my disintegrating hip but opened my eyes to what being old feels like. Although I just turned 70, which sounds pretty darn old already, I'm not an "old lady" in any way, or at least I wasn't until the first of August. Thanks to the miracle of Clairol hair color and an enduring sense of style, I look younger than my age. I feel young, think young, race around town in my sporty red Audi, work out with a personal trainer three times a week, smoke pot if it's any good and still have every last marble. My husband, a mere toddler at 59, keeps me feeling sexually attractive, at least to him. It's all good.

Then WHAM !!!! -- suddenly I'm old. I have two walkers, one for upstairs and one for downstairs, but I can get by with a cane when I'm feeling spry. A visiting nurse comes to see me twice a week to prick my finger and test my blood, check my vitals and inspect my incision. I have little appetite because of all the medications I take. I've been virtually housebound for the last two weeks, except for a visit to the doctor to have my surgical staples removed. I take the blood thinner Coumadin so I have to be extra careful about bumping into things or cutting myself in the kitchen, not that I'm in the kitchen much since cooking seems exhausting and besides, who cares -- a poached egg, a few prunes and a handful of walnuts are all I need, really. And of course my daily Miralax.

I play a lot of word games. I have no idea where my mascara is. Ditto my car keys. I wear the same shoes every day, and my clothes closet seems as relevant to my life as the wardrobe room backstage at a Broadway theater. I enjoy being waited on. In fact, it's downright luxurious to have someone else make the coffee, pick up the newspaper and feed the cat each morning, and bring me a fresh ice pack and a nice cup of tea in the afternoon. Suddenly the idea of an assisted-living facility doesn't seem all that bad.