Dealing with the nonaganerian within

By Richard Glover

My body is ageing in the strangest of ways. Everything on the left of me is going. My left toe, left knee, left hip. I have a sore tooth, left side naturally, and a left wrist that throbs when the weather changes. My right side, on the other hand, is perfect. I'm like The Picture Of Dorian Gray but all in the one body. A lithe 19-year-old takes up residency on the right, his body tethered to a clapped-out 90-year-old, who drags along on the left.

Oscar Wilde's character had it easy; my portrait in the attic comes with me wherever I go.

I should do something about these various ailments but where to start? I went to see one doctor but she said I had to get an ultrasound from another doctor, before presenting myself to a third. And to fix the tooth I have to see someone called a dentist. It's just as easy to do nothing.

Why can't the medical profession organise itself as one would a good motor repair shop - diagnostic, mechanical and auto-electrical all under one roof? Then I'd be willing to attend. I'd come out the other end, clutching a green slip. That's a medical service that men would attend.

As it is, I have too much to do at home. As my body falls apart, so does the house. I feel like I'm bailing out a sinking ship: the faster I plug the holes, the faster new holes appear. A fortnight ago, my left knee went and so did the hot tap in the shower. After four hours of searching, I acquired the spare part for the tap, limping into Cass Brothers like Quasimodo. Later that day the handle broke off the dishwasher. I couldn't work out how to fix it, so I washed the dishes by hand, my left wrist athrob with the unaccustomed action.

Worse, Jocasta suddenly announced that she was "sick and tired of the house" and "that living room is making me depressed". I asked her to outline her concerns, which turned out to be a mistake. Three hours later, I was in possession of a fairly long list.

It's true that, a few years ago, a couple of tiles blew off the edge of the roof. I didn't bother to replace them, since they were from the very edge.

Well, here's a surprise: it turns out a roof needs its full complement of tiles. Water had found its way into the brick work, leading to a pelt of mildew over the living-room walls.

"Look at it," said Jocasta, pointing fiercely. "We could grow mushrooms." Ileaned against the wall, rubbing at my sore hip.

"It's like viewing an ancient ruin," she said glumly, "and the wall is even worse."

Jocasta's mouth was pursed with regret. "And look at the carpet," she added. The carpet was covered with brown stains, interrupted by festive swirls of baking-soda residue - the tragic result of owning both a dog and a copy of Shannon Lush's Spotless.

Saturday morning and Jocasta tells me she will be out of the house for the next 10 hours, attending to some work in Parramatta. By the time she returns she would like to see something "done about the state of the house".

Under this sort of pressure, my limp worsens. It's like watching home renovations performed by Richard III.

I attack the mould with various cleaning products, letting the young side of my body do the brunt of the work. Even the young bloke, with his strong right arm, is defeated. The mould won't shift. Richard III, meanwhile, glues the handle back onto the dishwasher in a manner that should last, well, 20 minutes.

Frankly the place looks worse.

I seek advice from a pal, who tells me that such despair is common among women in their late 40s. They are coping with alcoholic husbands, truculent children, unappreciative employers and the slow extinguishment of hope that is central to the human condition.

"How can one make life better for them?" I ask.

Real change, he confides, is difficult to achieve. But despair can be held at bay by presenting an illusion of change, thus buying oneself some time.

He suggests I rearrange the furniture.

I limp into action. I swap the positions of the couch and the television, the reading lamp and the heater, the 90-year-old on my left side panting as the young bloke shouts at him to hurry up.

I grab three empty cardboard boxes and clear every surface of photos and knick-knacks.

This leaves the place looking a little too stark, so I return four photos two of each child, pictured as toddlers.

Jocasta returns, abuzz with the work. Her day went well. She no longer seems at all worried by the house. She is, however, troubled by the missing photos. She notes that I've failed to recognise my own children and that all four photos are of the same child.

I look again and see she's correct. I must be going blind, in at least one eye. I'm guessing it's the left. One of these days, I'll go to the optometrist and have it seen to.

It's today's addition to the always growing list of things needing repair.

First published in the Sydney Morning Herald, April 25, 2009.

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