Possum Philosophy: The changing perspective of aging

By ROBERT CAHILL/Columnist

“Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be born at the age of eighty and gradually approach eighteen.“
—Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens), American author, humorist, newsman and raconteur.

At 18, I would never have agreed with Brother Twain. Now that I am far closer to 80 than 18, I agree with him wholeheartedly. Ordinarily, this would be my favorite time of year, late spring, early summer, the time when a young man was just tuning up for a summer full of fun.
It is the time of year for gardening, both flower and vegetable. It is a great season for nature photography. It is usually wonderful weather, warm but not hot; pleasant, not humid. It is the time to start spending lots of time outdoors rather than bundled up inside trying to stay warm or sitting sweltering under a fan or air conditioner hoping to stay cool.
As I said earlier, a great time of year. Until you get older. Until degenerative arthritis begins to work on the joints. Until every joint in your body aches whenever a rainstorm enters the picture. Until all the bad habits of youth with their tiny aches, pain, side effects and damage combine to a huge bundle of damaged joints, bones, cartilage and other tissue.
If I sound a tad negative, it’s because I am. For almost two weeks now I have been suffering from bursitis in my right hip. At least that’s what it appears to be although one health care provider suggested it might be sciatica. Either way it hurts. I mean hurts. Hurts so that it is difficult to find a comfortable sleeping position. This is especially unusual for me as I can usually sleep anywhere, any way, on any surface, and at almost any time.
Now part of it is my fault. It had been in its early stages for over a week. Just a nagging twinge now and then. The unexpected ache. The sudden weakness in a joint that lasts only a second or two. I chalked it up to the weather, rain moving in every day or two, and damp when it wasn’t raining. It’s funny in a way. As a young child, I would hear the old folks (you know, the ones that were about the age I am now) talk about being able to forecast rain by the way their “Old rheumatiz” had started hurting. I thought they were full of you-know-what. Now I am better at weather prediction than the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration folks ever thought about being, just by gauging the pain in various joints and junctures of my weary and worn-out old body.
Yes, much of the damage could have been prevented. I could have avoided high-speed bicycle wrecks. I could have been far more careful about falling off of motorcycles. I could have foregone jumping out of moving cars, playing tackle football in the middle of the road and many other faux pas of a rowdy youth. But I didn’t. See, I had never heard of degenerative arthritis that I can remember and would probably have totally ignored the warnings if I had.
Normally at this time of year I would be out nearly every day taking photographs of wild life, birds nesting, humming birds feeding, deer, turkey, anything one might see. I would be traveling the back-roads and hollows looking for wildflowers or the unusual and unusually beautiful view.
I would also be helping my good friend (and now mother-in-law) Eunice Mutter plant her numerous flowers and even sneaking in three or four tomato plants just for Eunice and me. I would be helping her fill her hummingbird feeders and her other bird feeders as well. Anything to be outside in the wonderful outdoors.
But I am not, not for the last couple of weeks. Like I said earlier, the signs had been there for a couple of weeks. Then about a week ago it hit full blown. I awoke in pain and tried to get out of bed. Frankly, it felt like someone had hit me squarely in the center of my right hip with a 16 pound sledge-hammer. It hurt to walk. It hurt to move. It hurt badly to stand. It hurt to sit or even lie down in most positions. I realized right off what it was; it comes to visit me about four, sometimes five times a year. Normally, I can shake it off using the medication I take daily and maybe adding an extra round or two of ibuprofen. If it gets worse, my doctor will add a course of steroids, (yes, I know that by admitting this I will never get to pitch for the Yankees, but I can probably still be president of Exxon-Mobil Oil.)
Of course, I stalled as we all do when faced with going to see a doctor. That is strange, since these are the people entrusted to protect and save our lives by caring for our physical well-being. But it got worse instead of better. So I broke down and called my health care provider’s office. Naturally I had waited long enough that they were booked solid for a couple of days, which by this time seemed an intolerable wait to me (yes, I know I’m the one that stalled.) So I called a back-up, a wonderful Nurse-Practioner and made an appointment for following day. Arose early, hurting like H—l, and ready to get some help. Her office called to tell me she was out sick but I could see someone else. By then I would have been willing to see a voo-doo witch doctor or about any kind of snake-oil peddler.
Saw the doctor and she agreed it might be bursitis although she was the one that suggested sciatica as the problem. Regardless, she prescribed a course of steroids. I started them immediately. Yesterday was the second day and it was already somewhat better. So much so that I went grocery-shopping with my M-I-L. Apparently overdid the store-prowling. Things were hurting somewhat last night, enough so I got up in the middle of the night to take ibuprofen. It eased off a bit. I will definitely be more careful today.
Darn I wish I were 18 again. Old Mark twain sure knew what he was talking about.