THE DAY I REALIZED I WASN’T MIDDLE AGED ANYMORE

The worst fear of anyone my age—over sixty-- who lives alone is to break a hip.

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I will never forget the Loch Ness monster.

I’d just bought tickets for my ten-year-old adopted daughter Freda and me to see The Water Horse, a kid’s movie about that very creature. Even though we’d left enough time to get to the show, the ticket taker told us we better rush because there were hardly any seats left. We were walking quickly through the long, cavernous halls of the multiplex to get to the theatre. Freda is pretty fast and I was rushing to try to keep up with her. I tripped on the rug right in front of the door to the movie. I knew instantly that it was a bad fall, but I didn’t want to alarm Freda.

“I’m okay, honey, “ I said reassuringly as I lurched to my feet. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get into the theatre.” I staggered into the nearest seat and went into shock. I was just compos mentis enough to notice that the theatre was half empty.

I wasn’t okay. I’d just broken my hip although I didn’t realize it at the moment. I sat through the movie not in a huge amount of pain but trying to stifle the terror I felt —one of my worst fears, and probably one of the worst fears of anyone my age—over sixty-- who lives alone was to break a hip. I’d broken an ankle a couple of times and knew how debilitating it was—I couldn’t have managed alone with a broken ankle, how was I going to it with a broken hip. I knew I had osteoporosis in my hips; my most recent bone scan had diagnosed it.

After the movie was over I tried to walk out of the theatre but literally could not put any weight on that leg—I couldn’t walk at all. I held on to a rolling wastebasket and hopped to a chair, where I realized I was going to have to call an ambulance. Hysterical inside, I acted calm as possible, not wanting to freak out the kid, but she was a real trooper

“It’ll be okay, Mom. Don’t worry about me. Dad is picking me up soon.”I called the ambulance and then called her father, who didn’t even offer to wait for the ambulance with me, much less offer to help or show any concern about what had happened.   I was on my own.

 He had left me for a younger woman when Freda was four and I’d been struggling ever since, to deal with an extremely active child alone at an age when I should have had grandchildren  (we’d adopted her when I was 55), to make enough money to pay the bills, to deal with loneliness,  to find new friends and activities and recover from the pain of being dumped.  

 It all seemed do-able until I broke that hip.    I knew I had osteoporosis, but was taking Actonel and calcium and thought it was getting better.    Actually when I’d had a bone scan recently I found out that my bones were getting stronger,  but my balance wasn’t, and I was increasingly vulnerable to falls.   

  But a broken hip???  That was just for old ladies and I wasn’t old. Was I?  I was only sixty-four—not even on Medicare yet. 

 Luckily the hip was not “displaced” meaning nothing had moved during the break and it would heal without surgery.   I had a hairline fracture in the acetabulum, the socket of the hip joint.   This fracture is extremely uncommon in young people unless they suffer trauma from a car accident or other injury.   However in the elderly even a minor trauma such as a fall can cause it.  

I was now elderly.  

A hip fracture takes a hellishly long time to heal.   I’d broken my ankle before and it healed in a couple of months.   It was over a year before I was back to normal functioning after this break.

I could still drive and walk—very slowly, and for a very short distance with the help of a cane—so I could take care of myself, more or less.    I quickly became accustomed to accommodations for the disabled, such as those little motorized carts they now have in most supermarkets and large stores.  My handicapped parking sign made shopping easier.    

The psychic pain hurt more than the physical pain.  Overnight I graduated from middle aged to old.   Only old people broke hips.   It took a year for that fracture to heal completely, and my sense of myself never did. 

 I’m now 80 but feel 90.  I have a couple of deadly diseases and will be lucky to get to 81.    It really pisses me off that living to 90 or even 100 isn’t a big deal anymore.   Why don’t I get those extra years? (I’d settle for 10…20 is pushing your luck).  

I know I shouldn’t have smoked, but I stopped 40 years ago, doesn’t that count?   And yes, I was fat, but I had gastric bypass surgery 25 years ago, which worked.   It cured my diabetes.  But lung cancer and COPD don’t care how fat you are.

Making role models of those who have reached truly advanced ages and are still taking care of their  homes, gardening and shoveling snow sucks for the rest of us.  We feel like losers…if only I’d done this not that, if only I’d exercised more and eaten more veggies.   But death is not an equal opportunity employer.   Neither is life, but at least you can bargain with it—stop drinking, start Pilates, eat Mediterranean, get a few more years.    

On the other hand a long, slow decline into your nineties is no fun either.   Medicine has made it easier for us to extend life but not necessarily the fun part.  Live long enough and your mind will go and with it most everything else.   

  I reassure myself that at least I will avoid the slide into senility that so many others are cursed with.   But please spare me the upbeat stories about hang gliding 95 year olds, and globe trotting 100 year olds.   I much prefer books like Roz Chast’s Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant.  which documents her parents descent into senility and refusal to deal with reality.  And it’s funny. 

I spent my life envying thinner women.  Now I spend my not so golden years envying women who can do yoga without a chair.  I can’t remember the last time I got up from a mat on the floor.