Yes, we are getting geriatric altogether, me, my husband, and our house. We just installed a floor-to-ceiling pole. Not for me to dance on, although one day if I get dementia, I just may. It’s so that my husband can grab onto it in order to get in and out of bed. He is suffering, according to the doctors, from the condition called “deconditioning,” which means his muscles are weak.
When we looked at recliners, we skipped over the ones that catapult you across the room. Sure, it would be easier for my husband but the goal is to strengthen, not weaken the already weakened muscles.
We just ordered a lift assist, a device that is supposed to help me help my husband to lift himself when he gets stuck in a chair.
My husband’s occupational therapist comes up with all these gadgets and devices, devices that make me realize that he is not the only one who needs assistance, that he is not the only one aging.
My pillbox that now occupies our dining room table reminds me that he is not aging alone and all these devices that now reside in my house, are a constant reminder that we are getting old altogether.