5/11/20

7:15 am

A few days ago I found myself feeling irritated with things that I’d been feeling comfortable with before.….. getting the lids off jars to get vegetables out to cut up for scrambles and stir-frys was irritating and before I had gloried in jars of vegetables liked displays in a window---framed in jars with glass walls and lidded in—enhanced and ready and waiting to serve and be served. And then not. I dropped lids or misplaced them on the stove when I thought I’d placed them rinse-ready in the sink and the effort of looking was irritating.  Feeding, scooping, combing, holding, mouse game with the cat was more effortful than effortless and I found myself irritated by how long it took her pounce on the mouse and I was wanting to be anywhere than the hold-onto the end of a mouse on a string, for a cat who wanted to savor her pleasures instead of chasing and grabbing and kicking and crouching and creeping oh-so-slow and landing and chewing and clawing the mouse I was dangling. So I’d stop Long she tired of the game and felt guilt stowing the mouse away. I couldn’t understand my irritability with small things that I’d been taking daily pleasure in. 

Two days ago Honey the cat was nowhere to be found in the house. She’d slipped out (her first time out in two years with me) when I was putting the pot of geraniums out and using two hands because it is heavier than it looks. Back upstairs she was nowhere and when I knew she had to be outside somewhere and maybe would be lost and never return, I looked around the living room and it was so empty and forlorn and dusty without her and I didn’t want to be in my own cozy living room because without her, it wasn’t.

I circled my apartment building carrying a can of cat food and a fork and tinked the cat dinner bell (which I never used inside because Honey had her own internal dinner bell and was on the windowsill ready to eat when her stomach said “Now!”) But I walked and called “Kitty kitty kitty” and “here Honey” and tinked the can and third time around she stepped out of the bushes in the alley and walked over to me and walked a little ahead of my hands until she paused and I scooped her up---she didn’t try to escape---she’d been on the wrong side of a closed door long enough I guess. But I was surprised at how desolate books, quilts, pictures, animal figurines were without her in the room or a room nearby. It’s like she held the life of our house in her paws. It gave me pause.

And I continued to feel irritation at needing to get dressed to go outdoors and walk when my knees hurt so much and even wanting to be outdoors in the sun and wind wasn’t a draw. But sitting in my nightgown and watching Netflix wasn’t either. And creative cooking was too time-consuming—even the time it took to chew was irritating. And I wondered at the change in myself from comfortable too uncomfortable. It was irritating and confusing.

Then yesterday I woke up and literally dragged myself out of bed—feeling a great resistance to even moving. There was nothing I looked forward to, nothing was worth the effort of doing and I realized I was depressed—really depressed. And that was a surprise—a depressing surprise.

And as I was feeding Honey, scooped and swept and took my thyroid with one glass of water, I thought about what I knew about depression—anger turned on self. And I’d had a twitch in my left eye for several days—my eye was bloodshot and I thought “Too much Netflix late at night” but I realized that an eye twitch was also an unwillingness to look at what is.

So I asked myself, adding up several days of being irritated” (which is anger), and one morning of being depressed (which is anger) and then an eye twitch that might’ve been not wanting to look at something in my life—I asked myself “why am I angry?”

And I answered myself “at myself.”

And I persisted “why?”

And I answered “because I am old.”

And I thought but I’ve been old all along and I ask “ why be angry when I haven’t been angry before?”

And I answered “because before I didn’t feel old and now I do feel old.”

And I asked myself “because?”

And I said “because old friends got old and have died (two in the last two months) and because for a month and a half the coronavirus has been killing old people—people in their 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and so the voluntary stay at home and 6 foot social distancing and still the possibility of death in every railing and door handle and button to push for walk-across-the-street as the president continues to deny and blame and get himself reelected and he may be which is depressing enough in itself. And Kathleen and I thought about social distancing and staying in the trailer and barn at Camp Southworth and no quilting group or potlucks or movies with friends and Selma and I decided neither of us would go to Washington this summer for the first time in 12 years. So maybe last summer was our last summer to be there and this summer maybe our last summer to be here.

I am surprised at thinking so much about death and being old and vulnerable to a disease that isn’t being stopped in its tracks or even well deflected given the lack of supplies to suss it out and a vaccine maybe a year and a half away and being confined to home through the summer and maybe into the fall and beyond. Life has narrowed down to a point and yesterday morning was appearing pointless because I am feeling old and before I was too busy and distracted in my life--baking and giving and church and movies and always things ahead to do when I had the time and now I have time and still things to do and I am resisting doing them. Before my life was full of people—close and casual and conversations and hugs (family and friends and even strangers). My life was full of interaction and now I am on the fringe of everyone’s life and trying to make sense of my own.

Before I didn’t feel old (inside or outside) except for my creaky, arthritic knees and occasional erratic blood pressure reading and heartbeat. Before I felt inside and outside like I always have—which was ageless and and now age has caught up to my awareness of being it—being old and getting older—time running out and no way to run away from the fact that it is more finite then when I was running in my belief that I didn’t have enough time to do everything I wanted to do, that was important to me to do, that I love to do,, which has been my denial. My mantra was try harder and you can do it all if you just keep moving.  

Now I am taking care of myself—walking 6000 steps outdoors every day—cooking healthy for me—weighing 193 ½ pounds this morning, drinking enough water, getting 6+ hours of sleep every night, in spite of occasional Netflix bingeing. And my painful knees (even at night) shout “you are old!” and “doing all the things to take care of yourself and for what?”

And I answer, “I don’t know.” At least I am not feeling irritation or depressed/ repressed anger and my left eye twitch is gone. Being old is terminal. Dying to be born on the other side—the side we are born from does seem more possible to me than ever before. But I liked getting older and not feeling old.

The cat is curled up on the quilt over my legs—my knees(both of them) are hurting and it’s a new day at home to be angry with who I am or what I can do or to accept who I am and do what I can. My choice.