Time is not an arrow

Time is not an arrow, it is a blow to the senses. One minute you are a sentient being, and the next you cannot open a bag of cheese.  There is no strength in my hands or fingers.  I find myself, more and more, using my teeth. Soon they will be down to nubs. I will have to gum my food. 

I did not think 74 was that old, but apparently I have been mislead by advertisers.  It is old.  What irks me most is not the daily reminders of  imminent decay,  but the loss of word recall.  "Anomia is a form of aphasia in which the patient is unable to recall the names of everyday objects."  And wouldn't you know? They have made a board game of it.  In the game, you describe an object and the other players have to guess the word.  And that is more or less what conversations with me have become.

In middle age, a person's memory is reasonable. But as you age your  brain becomes dense, like a hoarder's house.  There are narrow pathways, but there is no way you can reach the broken aquarium under the cat in the Barbie dollhouse.

Gone, Baby, Gone

 

Before Sam, I had never had a dog argue with me. We never knew the source of his grievance.  Sometimes, I argued back, miming his outrage. 

Sam was adopted at two by  my son who treated him well.  Perhaps his first two years were horrific,  full of cats and scary city rats.  He was eight when we took over his care, including two knee replacements

With time the arguments subsided, but he never lost the urge to comment.  He always wanted something now, dammit.  He could be alone in a room and still he groused.

 He was aloof, but he and I cuddled when no one was looking. We were good to Sam.

 The car seemed to come out of nowhere.   Sam was hit and dragged.  I thought he was going to be okay as he was standing when I got to him.  But he wasn't.  The vet offered options.  It wasn't the cost, but likelihood of a painful life that made us pause. My son agreed via Trans-Pacific call to let Sam go.

The silence in our home is deafening.