My dad turned 93 a few weeks ago. He doesn’t think of himself as old and neither do I. His health is stable. His mind is sharp. His disposition remains optimistic. He is very lucky and so am I. But with the passage of another year, I notice the small changes.
- His back is a bit more curved due to the effects of osteoporosis and years of using a walker.
- He seems to like the fact that we walk arm in arm when outside, where the fear of falling looms with each step.
- His handwriting is shaky, jagged and uneasy, as if someone asked him to write in a moving car.
- He automatically hands me bottles of water to open. I automatically open them and hand them back, knowing this task is too difficult for his arthritic hands.
- Small items dropped on the floor remain there until my next visit.
- On the last day of each month, he reminds me to turn the page of his 49er’s football calendar, which hangs on a bulletin board slightly out of his reach.
My dad never complains about these little maladies. I’m not sure he even notices them, which is just fine with me. I look forward to turning many more pages on the calendar together.