FICTION : NOT FICTION : YOU DECIDE
Today, I Tried to Kill a Hole in the Wall
Don’t worry, the hole didn’t die
A Cautionary Blog from Martha — Topic: The Pitfalls of Growing Old!
There it was, a pesky vermin-ridden insect lurking on my pristine kitchen wall. I couldn’t allow it. Could I?
So I grabbed my trusty thwacker and approached, ninja-style, tippy-toeing in my brightly coloured Skechers (they make me feel hip and modern).
I thwacked!
Nothing happened! Surely, I couldn’t be that far off with my aim (cataracts notwithstanding).
As it turned out, I had hit a nail hole in the wall perfectly and once again, my old-person ego suffered a demeaning blow.
Out of sheer frustration, I thwacked myself on the head.
Growing old is Nature’s way of punishing us for being self-opinionated, self-assured, healthy assholes in our youth. And boy, does that tart, Nature, know how to dish it out.
Whenever I complain about old age to an old-ager, I often get the response, “Yeah, but the alternative is worse!”
Is it? I thought dead was dead. No more anything. All over, Red Rover. Who knew? Unless they figured they were destined for ‘downstairs’, if you know what I mean.
Anyhoo, as I said, my name is Martha; my hubby is Arthur, and goodness knows, even we have trouble distinguishing Arthur from Martha.
Sometimes, just for laughs, we strip off and stand side by side in front of the big mirror. There’s not much difference between us these days. All the interesting bits have either shrunk or disappeared into rolls of extra wobbly bits. It probably sounds awful to you whippersnappers, but it’s good for an elderly giggle.
The general population doesn’t seem to like old people. We remind them that Nature will get them, too, one day.
I’d venture to say my doctor even hates me.
For four years, every visit has been the same as the last.
I wait in the empty waiting room. He opens his surgery door and looks around, up and down the hall, refusing to make eye contact.
“Martha Shatwell?”
Perhaps he hopes someone else with the same name will miraculously appear.
I am treated with disdain during the whole visit. I ask a question and receive a one-word answer or none, depending on what kind of day he’s having. Then I sit demurely, hands folded in my lap, afraid to speak. Doc prints out a script and sends me on my way with an unmistakable look of relief.
The visit takes five minutes. Tops.
I read on the Practice website that Dr Nuckfumckle has a special interest in children’s medicine. I have never ever seen a person under seventy go through that surgery door.
I get it; he’s probably disenchanted with how his career is shaping up and takes it out on all of us. However, I have seen him smile at staff and other patients; he even addresses them directly by name.
“Hello, Bob. Nice to see you.” Expansive smile. “Come on in and sit down.”
Recently, I saw Dr N in the supermarket. He was mincing through the freezer section with an arm prissily threaded through the handle of a shopping basket. He had a happy, supercilious little smile plastered on his face as he cat-walked around the frozen peas and mini pizza subs.
Mincey little dipstick.
And then I had an epiphany. I hate my doctor!
Finally, something to work with! This could be developed into a workable doctor/patient relationship.
My next visit occurred a month later.
I endure the interminable wait in the waiting room, and then, “Martha Shatwell?”
“Over here, moron!”
We both enter his surgery with matching scowls.
“What?” Doc sits in front of his computer without looking at me.
“Just scripts today. I don’t want to mess up your precious schedule. ”
“Thank the Lord. Whaddya need?”
I tell him. Then, I talk. A lot. About the hilarious way my lungs crackle loudly at night, the funny pain that radiates from my left shoulder down the inside of my left arm, how my chinky toe rot has an unusual odour, and how I saw him mincing about in the supermarket freezer section.
He types furiously and whips the scripts from his printer, handing them over brusquely.
“Those are your scripts. This is a request for a chest X-ray, an ECG, and here’s a pathology slip to give the nurse. She can clip your disgusting toenail and send it to the lab. That it? Good. Get out. Don’t let the door hit your fat backside as you leave.”
I exit, slamming the door as I go — the doc and I finally have a professional future together! I may have lied about one or two things, but it won’t hurt to have a thorough check-up, and it’s a definite win for the toenail!
Sometimes, we oldies have to give a situation the benefit of our years of wisdom.
I’d hate you to think that Arthur and I spend our days naked, looking in long mirrors between visits to the quack. We do other stuff to keep ourselves active and mentally alert.
We play in a little musical duo we call the Hasbeans. I wanted to call us the Hasbeens with a double ee. (Made sense. Right?) But Arthur said we should emulate the style of the Beatles and mix it up a bit. I thought it was inordinately stupid; neither of us has ever been a bean, but couples who have been together for centuries learn to compromise (at least the women do); otherwise, couples wouldn’t be together for centuries.
We once filled in for a band volunteering at a local aged care home, and the administrator took a shine to us for some unfathomable reason. She phoned me following our performance and begged us to consider doing a monthly spot for a couple of hours. She said the staff thoroughly enjoyed the music and loved the rapport Arthur and I had.
Funny, my memory of the day did not quite gel with hers.
Insert wafty music indicating a nostalgic return to an earlier time 🎵🎵🎵
As we set up on the dancefloor, the staff began wheeling in wheelchair-bound residents. Others arrived in proper hospital beds that could be raised and lowered for patient comfort. The beds and wheelchairs were given priority positions right in front of us.
As we performed, the staff slowly filtered in to stand along the walls, tapping their feet and dancing off to the side with one another. The old folks in the front row either dribbled or nodded off, or both.
The applause from the staff was vigorous; the applause from the patients was lukewarm except for one old guy who hooped and hollered at the end of every song. I noticed he was the old rascal who had pinched my fat backside as we set up the gear.
Perhaps he was hoping for groupie favours.
Not long into our first set, one old bird rolled her wheelchair forward and stopped right in front of us, snicking my little toe painfully. She sang, raucously and off-key, through every number. I was thankful that she was confined to a wheelchair because she kept reaching to grab my microphone.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the two hours were over, and one assistant rushed over to wheel the offending vocalist, still singing loudly, out of the venue.
Hilary, the Administrator, briskly approached us to say how much she had enjoyed the afternoon. Turning to an elderly bedridden patient who had slept through the whole thing, Hilary spoke in that annoying child voice some people use on old folks. “Wasn’t that wonderful, Aggie? Did you have a lovely time?”
Aggie’s right eye popped hideously open as she vehemently spat, “No! It was bloody terrible!”
We did not continue to do aged care gigs at that facility. I could take the offensive remarks from Aggie, but the wheelchair vocalist could not be tolerated. Nor silenced, I later learned from other (aging) performers.
I gaze out the kitchen window just in time to see Arthur sneeze violently. His upper denture sails majestically up and over into the long grass he is about to mow. After five minutes of swearing and searching on dicky knees, he retrieves and restores his teeth to their proper resting place.
He has only just finished spraying the grass for weeds! Oh well, we all gotta go sometime.
My quiet giggle at Arthur’s antics ends when I remember I have been looking for my glasses. For ages!
I own two pairs: a streamlined going-out pair with fashionable gold frames that pinch my nose, driving me to distraction after a few hours, and a comfy stay-at-home green plastic pair with round lenses that make me look like a myopic frog.
A glance at the reflective microwave door solves my missing spectacle issue. I am wearing both pairs, one on top of the other!
That explains why I thought the darned hole in the wall was an insect.
Doesn’t it?
Want to read some hilarious stuff? Claire Franky can teach even old dogs like me and Arthur a few tricks:
