It was a Tuesday when I discovered that I am in the age category “Old”. Last Tuesday. February 27, 2024. It’s not an easy realization, but I was forced to look at the evidence and, yes, I’m now “Old”.
I’m a housekeeper at a rehabilitation hospital. I’m a working supervisor, and I’m proud to say I don’t ask anyone to do anything I won’t do myself. Last month was a staffing nightmare, so I was more of a housekeeper than a supervisor, so I cleaned quite a few rooms myself. I’m not complaining, it just be that way some days, ya know? Well, I had just finished the last room of the day, when I received a request to mop a “sticky” floor. No problem. I pushed my cart, complete with all the accoutrements of the professional housekeeper (broom, dustpan, mop, cleaning chemicals, etc.) towards the room. That’s when it happened. I felt a bubble. In my abdomen. A gurgle, if you will. I thought “no problem. I’ll just wait until after I mop this floor and go to the Little Boys Room and do the necessary thing.” The room to be mopped was nearby, and the Little Boys Room was just around the corner, so no problem, right? Wrong.
There were family members saying goodby to the patient when I got there. They’d visited and were on about Stage Two of the proper Southern Goodbye. You know how that goes?
Stage One: Well, I guess we aughta be headed out. (Then they talk for ten more minutes)
Stage Two: Y’all take it easy. Tell ya momma ‘n nem we says hello. (Two steps towards the door, then a turn and “Hey, did anybody tell you about (insert weird five-minute story about common friend/family here)
Stage Three: Okay, then, Bye now! (Visitor may leave now, unless the person they were visiting does their own version of Stage Two, which is most likely)
So I waited. The bubble in my gut grew just a little, causing pressure in areas that you really don’t want pressure to be. The family finished their goodbyes and said “hello’s and thank you’s” to me as they left. Cool. Now I can mop, which I commence doing. For those of you who have every mopped anything, you know that you generally bend slightly at the waist to get this process done. When I did that, however, the bubble shifted. Hard. It dived six inches to the south and felt like a small balloon when a heavy smoker tries to blow it up. It got bigger, but very slowly. The race was on. I mopped that floor with tenderness and care. The floor got clean as the prospect of me making a mess got more likely. When I say likely, I mean it was only a matter of time. When you know it’s coming, but don’t know exactly when, your anxiety level goes up exponentially. I finished the floor, said my goodbyes, put out my “wet floor” sign, and ran to the bathroom. That’s a lie. I slowly walked, stiff legged, with the two halves of my posterior tightly hugging each other. I was clenched. That was the longest, slowest walk to the Little Boy’s Room I’ve probably ever taken. I inched my way there, all twenty feet, with my one good eye getting blurry and a prayer on my lips. I had to stop twice and stand completely still, to stop the bubble from bursting. I finally made it to the nearest depository, which was inside the nurse’s break room. God help me if it were occupied! My prayers were answered (it wasn’t) and I was able to sit upon the Throne of Necessity and partake of the facilities. If you think the Good Lord don’t answer prayer, I would disagree with every fiber of my being, because that’s exactly what I left there in that little room. Trust me, I had zero fiber left.
God is good. In the little (but highly important) things, as well as the big ones
If you think that event was why I’m marking my “Old Man Birthday” on the calendar as February 27, 2024, you’d be wrong. That was only one of many bodily breakdowns that I’ve had since I’ve reached the age of fifty. Oh no, nearly pooping my drawers just sparked the reason I now know for sure that I am actually “Old”. After I succeeded in making it to that special room and leaving a quarter of my body weight behind, I told no less than three of my coworkers what had almost happened. Every detail. One of my housekeepers laughed as I told the tale of how she was almost called to clean up the trail of a brown, smelly, substance that went all the way to the bathroom. I would’ve told more people, but it was quitting time and I wanted to get home to Laura Gail. On the drive home I determined that I’d write this story, because it was as close to a “near-death” experience I’d had in a long time. There was such relief and satisfaction that I’d come so close to the danger zone without failing that I didn’t care who knew. That’s the true mark of an “Old Man”. We don’t care who knows about our flaws. The baldness, the beer gut, the bowed-up walk, they’re all part of getting to the “Old”. You truly know you’re old when you’re so proud of making it to the bathroom that you’ll write about it in the newspaper. So here I am.
God bless y’all!
Rolling Stones 