Oh, the joy of moving! Yes, in just over a month, I will be moving. Again. I am moving, literally, across the street and down the road. It is a five-minute walk from where I currently reside. Sounds crazy until I tell you I am leaving a studio apartment for a 2-bedroom, 2-bath, and full kitchen (that means an oven). The price will be half of my current rent. Not twice the amount, half the amount. The downside will be having to furnish the rest of the rooms. Almost all of my furniture is hand-me-down from my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. The rest is from the mementos of two wonderful marriages. This will be my chance to make my place my own. At 71, I guess it is time.
Two weeks ago, I started a walking program. I was becoming very lazy about exercise. There is a full gym here, complete with classes. Early on, I tried to get involved. But, honestly, all of those old people get in my way. As I will be going to Italy six weeks after I move, I need to be able to walk, really walk! Since my doctor has informed me of the medical problems that are beginning to appear and the warning signs that are yelling, “Stop doing this, and start doing that!”, partly due to my age, and partly due to my negligence, I have decided to stop being a lazy idiot and to put on my walking shoes. At 71, I guess it is time.
I have missed being able to cook. Most people who move in here do so in order to be able to stop cooking. That is the one thing I have missed. The lack of an oven has been hard. I could have used a toaster oven, but then I would have no countertop space. At first, it was fun to order restaurant-style and to be served by sweet college kids who had learned the names of 200-plus residents. But you quickly learn that white bread, pasta, and three kinds of potatoes are not conducive to a low-carb diet. It will be good to control my own diet again and to lose the ten pounds I have gained since moving here. At 71, I guess it is time.
I am sad to report that my little JoJo is also succumbing to the realities of age. At sixteen his little heart is starting to slow. Two months ago he stopped walking. One day, we went for a walk. The next day, he would take a step and fall flat as a Platypus, unable to stand again without difficulty. He is now unable to stand on his own. I have him in a diaper 24/7. The veterinarian has tried multiple things, including Prednisone. I had just stopped taking it for my pneumonia. Then he started it. Such a copycat, right? It has perked him up, and his appetite is excellent. He just cannot walk. I am taking him to a doggy physical therapist in a few days. I’m pretty sure they will not be able to do anything for him. I have a follow-up for his regular vet the following week. I am getting myself ready for the final decision. Until then, we (he) spend our time eating, peeing, pooping, being pampered, and, like his feline counterpart, sleeping about 20 hours a day. He is not in pain. If he were, decisions would be easier to make. I think God sometimes gives us grace to grieve a little before an actual loss. Believe me, JoJo has had a good life. And he has been a wonderful companion, first of all to my husband. The two of them were inseparable. And then to me, the grieving widow. He traveled by car, from the West Coast to the East Coast, three times.
For me, this will be the end of an era, so to speak. The loss of my husband. The loss of my mother. And soon, I fear, the loss of the tiny Pomeranian who was with me through it all. No matter the future, I will go on as long as God wills. And I will remember all of the good in my past, pick up my bucket list, and start moving forward.
At 71, I guess it is time.
Leave a Reply