I take a blood thinner; therefore, I bruise easily.
So, for instance, if I’m putting away dishes in our cupboard after dinner and bump the top of my hand on the corner of the cabinet, I am sure to leave that mundane household experience with a souvenir–an immediate red patch that will last a few days in the afflicted area.
I haven’t always been ultra-self-conscious about the condition of my extremities. It’s only lately–in my sixties with thinner skin on my thinner body–that I’ve become aware of my aging hands and, of course, my mortality. They go hand in hand.
Since I’m a writer and rely on my fingers, wrists, and hands to write these sentences on my laptop, I’m fortunate not to have arthritis in my joints–in my hands.
My sister Diane seems to be the one in our family who has inherited that painful component of our mother’s DNA. Particularly in her hips, knees, and feet.
Diane is sixty-eight-years old. She doesn’t read what I write. We live seventeen hundred miles apart. She in Illinois. Me in Arizona.
Even so, I love my sister. I always have and will. Tom and I visited her and Steve (Diane’s husband) for an afternoon last October while we were in the Chicago area. In this age of Covid, we recounted all the things we are thankful for.
Diane will always be my only sibling, my only big sister. We talk and text occasionally. I worry about Diane’s physical wellness and longevity. We’re the only two remaining in our family of origin, since Mom passed away ten years ago.
Diane also is the only other person who remembers the nuances of our St. Louis childhood, our homelife (good, bad, and indifferent), our difficult plight as a family after Dad’s heart attack in 1962, our mother’s resolve in her fifties and fragility in her eighties, our mother’s aging hands.
I came across this photo of Mom’s folded hands from Christmas Eve 2008. That night, we gathered at Diane’s home in Illinois to celebrate the holiday and open gifts. Mom would live to share another four Christmases with us.
It’s a cropped image and not the clearest, but when I saw it, I was reminded of Mom’s age spots and blemishes that grew with the passage of time on her fair, loose, thin skin. The rough patches on her hard-working hands go back in time to her rural southern roots in High Point, North Carolina, and fifty years in St. Louis, Missouri, which I chronicle in From Fertile Ground.
In her final nine years living in northern Illinois, our mother had this habit of clutching a tissue in her palms. She often hid an auxiliary one in the arm of her blouse or sweater. If you look closely, you can see it peeking out of the sleeve of her heather-flecked turtleneck.
These are the little personal idiosyncrasies that only a sibling would remember. They don’t matter in the grander scheme of things, but they do when it’s your mother and you still love and miss her after ten years of living without her. And you realize that your own mortality creeps ever closer with every blogpost.
Sure, I stay active–mentally and physically–and will continue to mount the treadmill several times each week to keep my heart strong.
But there is no denying the evolving appearance of my spotted, aging hands. They are looking more like my mother’s every day.
6 thoughts on “Aging Hands”
This is right where I live, Mark. I’ve got the forearms and shins of an 80 year old. The skin tears easily and takes forever to heal. Each of these aging idiosyncrasies that become prominent really take the wind out of my sails. At 60, I don’t feel old, but then I itch my forearm and I bleed and I’m reminded that it will only get worse. — Because my father is alive, my brothers and I are very much in touch. I worry that we’ll lose touch when he’s gone. On top of that, both brothers are planning to move away from the DC area (which is only 90 minutes away from me) in the next year. I suspect I’ll feel a bit like an orphan. Of course you and I have our spouse and kids. They can keep us from feeling adrift.
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I knew this post would speak to you and your situation, Jeff. After Mom died, that orphan status really hurt and it took a long time for Diane and I to adjust our relationship and find new common ground. I think that’s pretty typical. The skin thing is tough for me. We’re both lucky to have caring spouses who are there to soften the blow.
Wonderful. I can sure relate–aging hands, kleenex in the sleeve, ha.
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Right Carol. We’re all in this together!
Beautiful. Your hands may show a few bruises, but they are,still strong and productive.
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Thank you for your steady voice of reason, Tom.