Old age isn’t fun

Old men have been much in the news of late. Specifically, the health and intellectual fitness of two aging politicians, President Joe Biden and former President Donald Trump.

As a member of the same demographic — I’m roughly halfway between the two candidates in age — I can’t say I’m enthusiastic about the choice. The odds of either man being physically and intellectually fit four years from now, when the nation will presumably be electing his successor, would seem long.

My own odds have turned rather for the worse since last we met here. Indeed, having recently experienced what felt like a near-death experience — the doctors seemed somewhat less alarmed than I was — I feel more qualified to speak to the issue.

Regular readers may have noticed an editorial note to the effect that I’ve been recovering from an illness. Four illnesses would be more like it — a succession of maladies that hit me out of nowhere. In retrospect, it seems almost comical. But it didn’t feel funny then.

I’m writing this because so many readers sent me messages of support that I’ve been truly touched. Who knew that my meandering contributions meant enough to people that they’d take time to write?

So, thank you, each and every one.

I’d always been one of the lucky ones, rarely sick a day since recovering from chickenpox at age 12. Probably a bit smug about it, honestly. None of the chronic complaints common to people my age had touched me: No back or joint pain, no arthritis, no cancer apart from a couple of skin lesions left over from my lifeguarding days.

Back when the COVID-19 epidemic began, I joked with my brother that our family’s history of living in dirt-floored Irish hovels with farm animals had rendered us immune to disease. Never mind that our maternal grandfather had died in the 1918 influenza epidemic. Other people get sick, not us. All the same, I showed up early and often for COVID vaccines.

Then came year 80. I woke up one morning in February too weak to get out of bed. No chest pain, so it wasn’t a heart attack; I could see, hear and move my extremities, so it wasn’t a stroke. But I truly felt as if the life was draining out of me.

I told my wife that I was dying. Oddly, I wasn’t so much frightened as resigned. The rest of you would have to go on without me. I’d be gone. Off duty. I remember thinking our two sons could care for Diane. If the idiots wanted Trump, they could have him. I’d no longer be available to bitch about it.

Even so, I told her not to call an ambulance, which she interpreted to mean that I wasn’t fixing to die at all. She waited. Eventually, I managed to get out of bed. The rest of the day is a blur, but on the second morning I drove myself to the emergency room at the University of Arkansas Medical Sciences campus about 10 blocks away.

COVID. My second infection of the winter. The first had been like a mild cold. This time it had gotten into my heart. I was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation, an irregular heartbeat that can cause strokes. They started me on blood thinners, beta blockers to slow my racing pulse and anti-virals for the COVID. They kept me overnight in the hospital, a lifetime first.

I felt weak and vulnerable. Diane complained that my bitching and moaning had become intolerable. Then my plumbing stopped up. Back to the emergency room for the longest day of my life. “Acute urinary retention” was the diagnosis. Catheterization provided a temporary but awkward solution.

Convinced that I was in denial, my wife insisted upon accompanying me to the urologist. After listening to her, he said, “I agree with Diane” — a big W for her. He thought I showed symptoms of pneumonia, which yet another emergency room visit confirmed. More pills — antibiotics this time.

I was still weak as the proverbial kitten and probably clinically depressed if the truth were known. Definitely done writing columns. I’d drive down to the dog park, sit on a bench and watch while Diane walked her daily laps. I could barely finish one.

Then “Dr. D” did his magic trick. A specialist in cardiac electrophysiology with a long name nobody in Arkansas can pronounce — brilliant and compassionate like all of the many doctors and nurses I encountered at UAMS — he stimulated my heart back into its normal rhythm.

And presto! I was back at 100% almost overnight. The A-fib could come back, but so far so good. A humbling, but instructive, experience. Old age is a bitch.

Gene Lyons is a National Magazine Award winner and co-author of “The Hunting of the President.” Email Lyons at eugenelyons2@yahoo.com.

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