“I went to the doctors today,” my mum told me this evening. We were on our way down the coast to collect our new glasses for our failing eyesight and the only reason we were able to have this conversation at all was Mum had her hearing aid in.
As I’m constantly reminded by my parents, ageing is a bitch but it sure beats the alternative.
But it’s not eyes or ears my mum complains about most when it comes to putting on a few years.
“I can’t remember where I put stuff,” Mum complained happily. This wasn’t a surprise to me. One of the first things she asked me when I jumped in the car was, “Do you have that book your cousin wrote, the tape dispenser or my silk dressing gown?” When I said no to all three she looked crestfallen, but only for a minute. “I’ll ask your brother.”
I already have issues remembering stuff. Just small stuff. Names, for example. Faces. Dates I’m hopeless at too. The plots of movies. The characters in books. Which names go with which children in my house. You know, the small stuff.
Not that Mum’s poor memory is a complete loss. In fact, it helps keep her active.
“I go for a nice big walk at least once a week,” Mum told me. “At the shopping centre, while I’m looking for the car.”
I’m only 45 but I already go for similar walks at the shopping centre, only mine are because we have two cars (both in worse condition than many vehicles at the local wreckers) and sometimes I go looking for the wrong one. And by sometimes I mean way too often.
So now my mum has glasses, hearing aid and probably a whole shelf dedicated to her and Dad’s pharmaceutical needs at their local chemist. And it’s a wonderful age to live in, where there’s drugs or cures for any number of ailments our forebears simply had to suffer with.
“The doctor was very nice,” Mum was telling me as we drove along the highway. “But I don’t know what he must think of me.”
She was concerned because when their chat over she went to leave the doctor’s room but didn’t even make it to the hallway before she had to seek his assistance again.
She couldn’t get the door open.
Doors are hard, aren’t they? No, not really. And well, the thing is, Mum has never thought so before either. She rattled the door a few more times but it refused to swing. Which was when the nice, young doctor offered his professional advice.
“It slides,” he said.
Mum inched the door open, just to check, but didn’t go through. Instead she turned back to the doctor.
“Have you got anything for that?” she asked hopefully.
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