Starflowers

Pink Egyptian Starflowers

These amazingly fragrant and abundant flowers are showing up everywhere I walk these days. It seems I just went through this neighborhood last week, and there wasn't a single pink flower here, but look at today! (Okay, yesterday.) And this is one another of those flowers whose scent I know well, but am I actually smelling them today or just remembering that smell? As my old reliable nose and memories collide, and as time continues to deteriorate my senses, I wonder about it. Who knows?

I learned that the diminution of the ability to smell certain things is known as hyposmia, rather than anosmia (complete loss of smell). I've been dealing with this issue since I first began taking lisinopril many years ago. I didn't notice the lack of smell for quite a long time, as it was very slow to develop. And some things I have always been able to smell, such as the scent of roses and a few other flowers. But slowly I began to realize that other people could smell fragrances that were not available to me. I soon realized that I cannot smell certain biological smells, such as poop and farts. Now that isn't such a bad thing, but it means that I cannot assume that my farts are not toxic to others. I discreetly slip out of the room if I have to let one go in public places.

It has not led to any loss of taste, however. Although I use hearing aids, I don't thave severe hearing loss (thank goodness), but one by one my senses are growing dimmer and less available as I move into late elderhood. Sometimes I wonder if it's a normal aging process to lose these abilities, in order to get one accustomed to finally losing them all. As I get older, I find that I am less distressed by these senses beginning to dim. I remember so much of the joys of living with these senses that I am not sure I am not simply filling in the gaps with remembrance. And if so, does it really matter?

Probably the hardest sense to lose is the one of sight. That has been a real distressing part of aging for me. But even that is quite doable, with all the new technology we have available to us, such as audio assistance, and my favorite new toy, magnifiers. I have amassed quite a collection of them, and I am always looking to find others to help me cope with my degrading vision. With my inability to see beginning to fade, I am learning to find other ways to enjoy my continuing abilities. 

And it's not like I can't see at all, but that my central vision is going. In my right eye, it's completely gone, but I have good peripheral vision, so if I want to see a detail with my right eye, I get out a magnifying glass and look at it sideways, sort of. Or use both eyes to figure out something that I am looking at. The cost of these eye injections is awful, too: not only do I have to endure a ten-second jab, but I now also must pay more than $400 for the privilege of having that stuff injected in my left eye. They aren't even bothering with the right eye, since that central vision is gone and not coming back. When I mentioned in another post the cost of the treatment, people wondered why Medicare doesn't cover it. Well, they cost $5000 per shot, and that is my "co-pay." And the injections don't actually prevent the disease of geographic atrophy, but simply slow its progression down.

I am just going to let nature take its course. In July I will get another injection, but then I will stop. I don't have that kind of money and it also doesn't help all that much. Nobody knows how much it might slow things down, but I've grown quite able to accomplish much of what I've always done. Looking at photos of scenes that are mostly dark are hard to see, and once I figure out what I'm looking at, my brain manages to fill in the rest. I can still drive, carefully and not far, but it's still possible to be safe if it's sunny and bright out and I am familiar with the route. 

I also have still not begun to join the Senior Trailblazer hikes again, since I fell in February and really did a number on my right hip, the one I injured in 2000. I have been through plenty of trauma in my eight-two years of life, and now most of it is because I still often forget my limitations and come up against them. But there are plenty of people out there who are not as agile and strong as I am, so I will count by blessings and remember how much I can still accomplish. For one thing, I'm sitting here in a dark room staring at a white screen, and I can write here without much difficulty. I notice how much easier it is to see when there is plenty of light.

wveral miles without difficulty, and gradually my hip and right leg are getting stronger as I continue to walk a few miles every day, and I am able to manage up to five miles right now, with more ability to come, I'm convinced. It's a long ways from here to being totally disabled, something that many people learn to deal with. Maybe that will be me one day, but not today.

I managed to oversleep this morning, so I don't have as much time as usual to compose this post. John will be coming to get me for our usual Sunday breakfast, and I need to get my exercises done, and my meditation as well, before he comes in his chariot (er, truck) and transport me to Fairhaven. He had another event last week and I was surprised at how much I missed seeing him. Here it is already another Sunday, and I am glad he will be coming soon. But that means I need to finish this up quickly and get out of bed, get dressed and start my daily routine. This Sunday morning post is part of it, and I'm so glad that there are still so many wonderful ways for me to enjoy the day ahead. And, of course, I have my dear sweet partner, still sleeping next to me, and I have you, my dear virtual family, whose posts will have to wait until later today for me to read them, but they are there, and I'll find out how all of you are faring on this late spring (or late fall) day. Until we meet again next week, I wish you all good things. Be well.