An Octogenarian Rambles - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

An Octogenarian Rambles - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

I encountered a vital, vibrant 80-year-old patient some years ago. In the innocence of my professional youth, I said, “Eighty. You needn’t worry. Age is just a number.”

She looked at me, twirled her ring, tidied her smock, squinted, pursed her lips and responded, “Young man, I have the number. I suggest you not say that again to an elderly patient.” Lesson learned. I never did.

Now, I have the number, and I am pleased to say that no one has called it “only” a number. Yet.  And I do not believe that 80 is the new 70. Baloney! The years are in the book.

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I try not to think about being an octogenarian. I try to keep my brain from moldering by surrounding myself with smart people, writing, reading, attempting a new challenge; the latest-- piano lessons. I don’t need to travel with Musk or Bezos. I’m already on another planet with a full agenda.

Memorizing stuff, good stuff, helps. Over the past few years, I have attempted “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” “The Owl and the Pussycat,” and “Casey at the Bat (“Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright.”). I also have a few limericks in the queue, but the titles and content prohibit public sharing.

I try to do happy things . . . golf, light television, humor, dining out, meeting friends, small talk, reliving the past (the fun parts). Conversations can be interesting and amusing . . . ailments, best doctors, pill competitions, bowel musings. I love it when friends ask my medical opinion. That’s rewarding. Age to a happy man can be unnoticeable.

With a spiritual shovel, I try to bury prickly past decisions. They never go away, but they get blunted when you realize that nobody cares, and history is just that, history.

Octogenarians dispatch a thought like a pony express rider, hoping it will carry mail to the next stop at someone’s cortex, and that it was said sensibly, with meaning.

Names are sometimes vacant, my opinions are often mossy, I retell stories as in “Yes, Papa, we heard that one.” Perhaps eating spaghetti with a slurp is OK, but not if the slurp simply means being older. That’s it. The age slurp.

I feel energetic, but the power plant gets low on energy fast, its lights flickering by eight o’clock. Sometimes when I walk, I stop to ward off foggy lightheadedness that sneaks up on me.  The mornings’ aches are like trying to start a car with a low battery.

During the pandemic, something changed. For the first time, I started to think about my next meal just after I had finished the current one. Gad!

Does any octogenarian wish to be younger? I do. I contemplate, and I am frightened by, the prodigious thought of the three-digit age. Oh, I’ll worry about it tomorrow. “Wisdom comes with winters,” said Oscar Wilde.

I think I’ll start counting birthdays backward. It’s part of a mental status exam anyway.

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.”  Learn more here.