Wednesday, December 16, 2009
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me Seven Aching Bodies, Six Fucking Douchebags, Five ... Straight ... Road ... Wins ........ Four Pints of Beer, Three Frenchmen, Two Sausages and Lubomir Visnovsky.
My little French Canadian grandmother said once, with a little bit of bitterness:
I would like to talk to ooever call them 'The Golden Year'
She buried my grandfather and then her second husband had a massive stroke that left him an invalid for seven years before she laid him in the ground too. He was unable to talk and could not get around very well and she took care of him every single day and night for all of those years. Her mother and three of her siblings lived to be over a hundred and so when she passed at eighty eight there was some anger in our family, for the feeling was that she had been worn down over all of those years of being a caregiver.
Probably right but when his family offered little more than 'put him in a home' after his stroke, my grandmother, stubborn and tough, declined and took it upon herself to keep him in their home as long as she could. He was ninety when a second stroke felled him, we lived in Florida at the time, fifteen minutes away, he had collapsed on the floor and somehow my tiny grandmother had lifted him on top of the bed where we found him sprawled, rushing over when she called, the paramedics there just before us. He lasted a few days in the hospital and then came back home to die.
Getting old is an awful thing. Last winter my dad tore a bicep muscle yanking at a frozen shed door, it gave him trouble until the spring and then he had a problem with his shoulder, likely related to that. We were visiting in the summer and he was achy and Mom had lost her balance and scraped up her arm nicely and so one night he cleaned her arm and applied the bandages and then he turned and she put some salve on his shoulder. Mom winked and said 'Ah the golden years' and they began to laugh their heads off.
The big fellow keeps trundling along but his hips are bad. Getting down is easy, he just lets those hind legs slide out from under him. Getting up is a little harder. He's not in any pain or so it seems - maybe he's just being stoic. I can knead those hind quarters pretty good and he doesn't give a whimper. Of course that also seems to be a fairly sizeable erogenous zone for him so maybe its all a put on like when I tell my wife that I need my groin massaged after a game.
Unlike me, she doesn't seem to fall for it though.
I've been lucky so far but let me tell you its amazing as you get older how suddenly things that were once easy to do become a little more difficult. After a game it takes me a couple of days to get going again. Now I'm not in the greatest shape but I'm not a mess either.
Its a bit of a bad deal.
Not as bad as the deal that the Oilers have Khabibulin though. Of course nobody could have seen this coming.
Oh right. Nearly everyone but Steve Tambellini did.
Posted by Black Dog at 7:00 AM