Don't let the old man in

I recently celebrated another pandemic birthday! July 22 marked my 76th and another milestone that should be qualified with an asterisk. The celebration was somewhat subdued, limited to family, and a patio table for five at a local Italian ristorante. Our son and his family remain just beyond our reach, the border barrier to the south, a one-way, semi-permeable kiosk collective preventing Canadian families and loved ones from driving into the U.S of A. August 21 could bring us closer to a more congregate family reunion but the Delta variant, escalating case numbers, hospitalizations and an ever-increasing number of vaccine refuseniks States-side, prognosticates poorly for opening borders and increases the likelihood of a 4th COVID wave and possible lockdowns. Our hugs and kisses are being held ransom predicated on falsehoods and fear, pandemic protocols and partisan politics in the U.S. Morning walks are the jump-start for any day, especially on this day. The city walks are far more idyllic along the vast network of trails that have been there forever, but, for us, only recently discovered. We choose a trail that winds its way along the meandering East Don River, which is at once beside us and in other places below as we cross a series of wooden bridges. The current, audible in turbulent stretches along the eroded banks, breaks the silence. The thick flora of green is all-surrounding, enveloping us in the fullness of its splendour. Pedestrian activity is relatively light, including regular walkers and joggers while cyclists are thankfully in the minority. The twists and blind turns are a potential invitation for disaster. Bicycle bells are an understatement when a streaking trail bike meets an immovable senior with slow reaction time. The southern extent of the trail having been reached, we turn, retrace our steps, and end up back where we started. Elapsed time 90 minutes, total distance 8k, and if steps matter, north of 13,000, a good walk today. After rehydrating at the car, we head home, invigorated and rejuvenated, age notwithstanding. I choose to cool down in the warmth of the mid-day sun. Our townhouse backyard is low-maintenance, limited to interlocking stone and garden perennials. Hydrangeas are in full bloom, offsetting the various shades of variegated green. Wind chimes are suspended in silence until a wisp of wind catches the striker, emitting a familiar and soothing, reverberating tone. The finch feeder is filled with thistle seed, awaiting the arrival of a selected species of brilliant, mustard-yellow birds along with more colour-muted family members. One plump regular frequent flier I have named Atticus. His presence always brings a smile. In the background, there is the periodic whir of an air conditioner and the ambient noise of not-so-distant traffic. The city refuge can actually be calming if you let it in. Birthdays in July have always been off the grid. As a child, summer camp provided a natural barrier to city celebrations with family and friends. No formalities exist sitting around a campfire singing kumbaya and happy birthday. As an adult, at least in recent years, it’s been pretty much emails and texts with cartoon and emoji attachments. Sixty-five was a jolt, 70 a thunderbolt and 75, a time for reflection, more realistic aspirations and Advil prn. The pandemic has truly tested us. These moments of celebration are titrated with uncertainty and diluted with missed opportunities and paths not travelled. Sitting on the patio, a cacophony of chirping winged visitors in the trees and the joyous cries of children splashing in their inflatables next door, my thoughts are distracted by the numerology of the day. Although it is only one day in the life, it is a day that marks the trail of life. It has truly been an annus horribilis. I would have preferred mirabilis but nobody from the planning committee consulted me. Much has been written about the COVID-19 pandemic, too much in my opinion, but it sells newsletters. I admit having been complicit in this regard, and despite my best efforts, COVID creeps stealthily into many a story. In my case, the scheduling conflict of retirement and pandemic could be considered ill-conceived, but two years ago, a pandemic was but a small elephant in a very large room, theoretical and unspoken. Today, in an attempt to divert attention from the omnipresent elephant, I choose to reflect on the past and contemplate the future, all while cognizant that today is #76. My wife, ever the optimist, considers me diametrically opposite in attitude. I, however, think of myself as realistic, a defence mechanism I have spent countless years perfecting. There are days when I bend in the wind just to see how it feels. I attempt to discount age-specific number references, not so much the daily reported COVID case counts and positivity rates. Some habits are hard to break. I think of the years ahead, in health and in sickness, hopefully in that order of priority. I dream of togetherness with our children and grandchildren, never missing the birthdays, graduations, weddings and even FaceTime video chats. I make a contract with myself—advice I believe is good for all of us. • Keep active and maintain a regular fitness program. This is not the Olympics, just training for life. • Eat healthily and drink moderately, the latter more challenging for me, especially around 5:00 p.m. • Get adequate sleep, whatever your definition of “adequate” is. Naps are negotiable, not necessarily a prerequisite. • Keep connected, with your wife/husband/partner/spouse and, of course, children. Celebrate family. Cherish your friendships, strengthen the tethers. • Remember, your medical colleagues. They have fought the same wars as you and understand the rules of engagement. • Stay in touch with the world without allowing the world to consume you. • Be creative. We all have stories to tell. Write them before you forget them. As I sit comfortably in the blue garden chair, I begin to drift, just sufficient to foretell an impending somnolent moment. I anticipate this welcome interlude, but “the bob” begins, that precursor to sleep when my head involuntarily drops downward in a repetitive, convulsive, cogwheel fashion, occasionally startling me awake, often accompanied by a snoring sound, or so my wife reports. These can be the most restful and restorative times. And so I awaken, somewhat refreshed, and uncertain as to where I’ve been or my current whereabouts. The iPad remains resting in my lap, the screen, a blackened mirror of inactivity. In the reflection of the screen, an elderly man gazes back at me, snowy white hair, more parietal dominant than crown, well-trimmed greying full facial beard and the odd wrinkle where wrinkles generally intrude. Seventy-six, eh! Earlier that morning, I received an email greeting from a good friend with a video attachment. There has been a flurry of daily missives from a variety of reliable sources over the course of the pandemic, many of which have failed at humour and therapeutic intentions. This video was recorded on the occasion of Clint Eastwood’s 88th birthday and is accompanied by a song featuring Country singer Toby Keith. The scene shows the gnarly and wizened Clint staring into a mirror while Toby sings, “Don’t let the old man in.” Not bad advice if you ask me.

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Don't let the old man in

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