This year has been crazy busy. I feel like every year I say that but for real, 2024 has kept me running in panic mode more than ever before. Since Paul has signed me up for Social Security, I’m thinking it’s probably time to slow down and I plan to. . . as soon as my next project is done. Until I get seriously intentional about rearranging my obligations and priorities there will always be another project.
As we’ve watched friends struggle with health problems Paul and I have had some serious talks about what we have on our bucket lists and how to start the process of doing them before life throws us a curve ball that makes it impossible. My cousin Wes, only in his forties, left us early this year, only days after playing cards with Paul and appearing to be in relatively good form. A shock and a wake-up call. It’s time to stop running like hamsters on wheels and to move toward retirement.
I should explain what Paul and I envision when we think of retiring. Paul has been on Social Security for several years and has called himself “retired” but in reality he has remodeled a kitchen for friends, built a deck and screened-in porch for other friends, remodeled an office and completed many other projects. He has also spent countless hours doing maintenance and grounds-keeping at our cabin rentals and helping at the store that I manage. I don’t think he could stop working cold-turkey unless forced to do so, which was exactly what happened for three months last year.
If you’ve never experienced severe sciatica, I highly recommend you take the word of someone who has, rather than requiring first-hand knowledge of its debilitating effects. Paul and his recliner became inseparable and I was wondering if this was going to permanently alter our future but, praise the Almighty, he has recovered. He came through with a much more cautious nature and an increased willingness to hire out the physical aspects of his construction endeavors to younger backs and stronger muscles. Watching one of our incredible neighbors repeatedly mowing our lawn was not an easy thing for Paul, during the recliner days, but Don didn’t ask permission and we are forever grateful for all the work he did for us, waving aside our thanks with an attitude that helped to defray our feelings of helpless unworthiness. Our excellent long-time neighbors keep any thoughts of moving at bay for the foreseeable future. Can one add their existence to the home appraisal list of luxuries, I wonder?
Meanwhile I have been busy trying to prepare for my own retirement, planned for February 2025. I hover between anxiety and anticipation at the thought of not having somewhere to race off to every morning, with an agenda to accomplish throughout the day. Frustration with my increasing physical limitations has caused me some irritation as well. I feel like the tin man when I sit for more than a few minutes; running 10 to 20 thousand steps per day (yes my Fit Bit has confirmed this!) keeps my creaking knees from protesting overly much. But there comes a time when, for the health of your marriage, your body, your mental state, and your business, it’s time to back away and let fresh blood take care of the heavy load. Even thinking of it as a heavy load signifies it’s time to move on. What once was highly anticipated and inspiring - the aforementioned agenda - has gradually become a “heavy load” that is wearing me down.
Retirement for some might mean moving to Florida and living in The Villages or some other pleasant sounding place where one can play golf, cards, Bingo, shuffleboard or pickleball 24/7. While all these activities sound entertaining, the prospect of these and nothing more feels like biding time till the grim reaper comes to fetch me. Now before anyone from The Villages gets all up in my face and offended I want to clarify. There’s nothing at all wrong with spending your golden years in an attractive collective of other like-minded retirees. It’s just not ME. So when I said I’ll retire in February I felt a mixture of panic, anxiety, and fear mixed with a tiny dollop of relief. And I realized that my retirement will, hopefully, look more like Paul’s (minus the sciatica) than like one of the Villager’s. No, I don’t plan to go into the construction business. But I am looking forward to whatever the next season in life brings. I’ve always liked change. And this is a big one.
I’m writing this from the seat of a Pioneer bus, heading west once again because, as I've mentioned, Paul and I have come to the conclusion that we need to do things while we still can, which we hope will be for many years to come. I have adventured with most of my fellow-travelers before. Actually, I think there is only one new face on the bus and by the time this trip is over I’m fairly sure he will feel like one of us. Our destination is Colorado. Yesterday we made it to St Louis. I’ll confess, I do not have fond thoughts and warm feels when I hear “St Louis.”
A number of years ago, my brother Jonas succumbed to the ravages of congestive heart failure, something he had fought valiantly for years. Four of us remaining siblings carpooled from Ohio to the funeral in Missouri. Navigating a packed expressway around St Louis, we somehow invoked the rage of the driver of a bright blue and expensive-looking sports car. After following us off one exit and onto another freeway, horn blowing all the way, he started ramming us repeatedly, moving among four other lanes crowded with high speed commuters. It was terrifying. I immediately called 911. He saw what I was doing through the rear-seat window where I was sitting and pulled across the lanes to the shoulder where he stopped. We did not stop. I explained to the 911 operator what had happened and told her that he had now pulled to the side of the road and was on his phone where “I am sure he will call you and say we hit HIM.” That is exactly what he did.
The operator said we were to pull off an exit when we felt safe and to let her know where we were and she would send the police. After all was said and done, our minivan showed nothing except some blue paint on one wheel while the front and side of our attacker’s car showed thousands of dollars in damage. The police escorted us to where the now not-so-shiny blue car with Psycho-man awaited. There were words exchanged mostly by me and the angriest male I have ever beheld, my three siblings with me being much more mature, controlled and polite than I am. The kind, weary-looking officer told us it’s clear to see who hit who and we can be on our way while he deals with Angry Man.
It left us all shaken and to this day I feel a knot in my stomach when I hear “St Louis.” To see such uncontrollable rage over. . .what? Did we pull in front of him closer than he liked? Did we not signal soon enough? Did he have an unreasonable hatred of minivans? On such a crowded highway at such high speeds how is it possible not to irritate anyone?! I’ve often thought of him especially when I see a bright blue vehicle. I’ve wondered what his life is like. I’ve wondered what it’s like to know him personally. Dangerous, frightening and unpleasant I imagine.
I faced another one of my fears today in St Louis. I faced the shuttle to the top of The Arch. Those of our group who had been to the top before said each shuttle only seats five so they aren’t crammed with as many people as can physically be shoved in, unlike the gold mine I refused to go into during another trip several years ago. I thought, “How bad can it be?” After all, they limit the load to five at a time. And I nervously agreed to go. By the time tickets were purchased and we had been lined up and moved slowly down to the shuttle loading area, like cattle in a holding pen, it was plenty late to back out. Even so, the only thing that kept me from running away when the teeny tiny fully-enclosed MRI machines opened up to suck us in, was my pride. Seems it was even greater than my fear. My heart was pounding and felt strangely out of rhythm. With hyperventilation threatening and not a paper bag in sight I shouted inside my head, in a voice no one but me could hear, “I CAN DO THIS I CAN DO THIS I CAN DO THIS.” At least I don’t think I said it out loud.
I was with four others from our group. My head bumped the low curved ceiling and I knew the only way I would survive this was to shut my eyes and pretend it wasn’t happening. It was beyond my comprehension how my four fellow inmates could calmly laugh and talk as if nothing horrible was happening. I was so thankful for Carolyn who told us about her exciting time paragliding. I’d always been told I have a good imagination and I decided it was time to put it to good use. I mentally clambered in under that parasail, alongside Carolyn, deep inside my head, and I made it to the top of that arch without freaking out. I enjoyed the views along with everyone else, capturing pictures of the city over 600 feet below. Heights I have no problem with. But the dread within me was a reminder of the looming return trip down in that coffin of a shuttle. Thankfully Pearl kept to herself the knowledge of five shuttle cars getting stuck en route several weeks ago. I requested Carolyn to talk about open air adventures all the way down and she agreed. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my mind far away from oxygen deprived cocoons and I survived once-again. Never again though. I came. I saw. I survived. End of story.
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