Embracing the inevitable?

Miss Johnnie’s Arms

Sunlight powered through the drifting clouds, through the bathroom skylights, around the corner of the bathroom wall into the bedroom and onto the bed where her arms lay outside the bed cover. The first impression of a casual observer would be that she was laid out in a coffin,  albeit a very beautiful one.

Just like the white bedroom walls accented the pickled hardwood floors, beige door and window frames, her fading tanned arms accented the white duvet. The  contrast between her arms and the duvet made the white more white and blended in with the room’s color scheme. The dresser, the bed, the chair were carved from white pine adding to the monochromatic decor. Even the paintings were white and ecru, florals that had just a slight tinge of peach hue to them, like the veins in her marbled bathroom floor.

“If there were a heaven, it might look like this,” she thought, “all this white and sunlight and fluff.” The duvet fluff reminded her of clouds during the day, but at night when she fell into bed it was a giant marshmallow that sweetly and warmly melted over her, gently fixing her to the down mattress top. She always equated this moment with ‘Smores, the toasted marshmallow sliding off the skewer, pressing into the Hershey chocolate square and the graham cracker. Silly but comforting and maybe melatonin induced.

As she raised her arms to stretch out to the sunlight and begin her routinely slow awakening, she stopped mid ascent. 

“What the hell!” Crepey, wrinkled, arms speckled with overgrown freckles and liver spots obscured her vision—“Miss Johnnie arms,” she thought.  

Miss Johnnie arms belonged to Bill’s grandmother. Those arms had dangled from the short sleeved floral house coats that Miss Johnnie always wore. She must have had seven of them, all in varying hues and floral species. Those arms, whose muscles had atrophied from years of neglect, whose paper thin skin would shred just from the human touch, could be oh so comforting though when hugging Lizzie, which was often. But Lizzie was young then, not very patient, and Miss Johnnie’s physical decline right before her eyes more than scared her —it horrified her. “I will not have that happen to me,” she vowed. Maybe not aloud, not consciously, but silently in her soul.

She wrinkled her nose and squinted again at her arms. As if examining a foreign object not attached to her body, she twisted her left arm more closely to her, watching the skin change as if it were a kaleidoscope—the wrinkles growing deeper the more she twisted it toward her and when she twisted it in the opposite direction—the wrinkles almost disappearing.

Immediately she thought of the Crepe Skin Reducer advertised on TV. So now she was old enough for that remedy? Yet she didn’t feel old—she still thought of herself as young. Then she remembered what her father had said when he moved into Assisted Living and experienced issues with walking, seeing, living—“I guess I never thought I would get old.”

“I guess I never thought I would get old either,” she mused. And yet she now had Miss Johnnie arms. Miss Johnnie, Bill’s grandmother with whom they had lived for eleven years, died at 94. The cause of death—dementia or maybe just being alone in a nursing home. She could still see Miss Johnnie’s thinning gray hair, the blue eyes that no longer sparkled except when frustrated with a word, a phrase, or a name that did not immediately come to mind. 

The thoughts of Miss Johnnie jumped to thoughts of her mother and how frightened she had been about dying. Here she was at 70, the same age when dementia infected her mother with paranoia and anxiety about death. How long did she have? Her mother had thirteen more years to live. Of course, she didn’t know that at the time. How much longer do I have? Am I scared of death?

Damn straight and scared of looking like an old woman. She now had the evidence before her. Ok, she had been a little surprised at the selfies she had thought about posting on Facebook. But the older face that appeared on her phone’s screen she attributed to poor lighting, poor camera resolution, poor makeup color—anything but actual poor skin. Yet here in the sunlit bedroom, no such excuses could erase what lay beside her—Miss Johnnie’s arms!

Ever so quietly so she wouldn’t disturb Bill, she eased out of bed and stole downstairs to the guest bathroom. She flipped the light on in the sun deprived room and hesitantly looked into the mirror. Yep, she could see the beginnings of neck wrinkles. What do they call them? Turkey something? She had always prided herself on having such a wrinkle-free neck. So now a turkey neck to accompany Miss Johnnie arms. How appalling! How had she missed this?

She’d been known to steal glances at her friends, checking out the presence of that turkey-neck condition and embraced relief that her neck did not look that way—not yet. Chin hairs—were chin hairs there also? Yep, she could feel the stubble although not yet see them, probably gray since they were not visible to her naked eye. Comparisons had always haunted her. She loved her friends but did gain some satisfaction that at least her neck had not succumbed to gravity. 

And yet—more signs of approaching demise now appeared. Was puppet mouth next?

“What a narcissistic, idiot I am,” she thought. But she knew she had always harbored those tendencies even as she desperately tried to stamp them out. Stolen looks into car windows  just to be sure her hair looked ok. She always heard that Carly Simon song rattling around in her monkey brain:  “You’re so vain.” What was that line? Something about always checking one’s self out in the mirror? Yep, done that too, she thought.

And here she was in the basement bathroom checking out her neck, her chin hairs, her puppet mouth. She could feel the anxiety welling up in her chest.  “I’m going to be just like my mother if I’m not careful,” she thought. And that scared her even more. 

“Be Mindful. Concentrate on my breath,” she whispered to herself as she slumped to the cold slate floor, the brusque sensation of solid stone against her naked backside jolted her back into the real world. The pounding of Bill’s footsteps and calls of “Lizzie, where are you?” also helped reality rush in.

“So here you are. I was a little concerned that you might be… ill?” Bill stared down at her, a wrinkled naked bundle of anxiety. “Are you ill?” he asked as he could see that his wife was not exactly cool, calm, or collected.

“No, I’m just old,” Elizabeth spat the words out, anxious not to let “old” linger in her mouth or in her ears. “And I’m not going gentle into that good night!”

“Even if I do have Miss Johnnie arms, and, and  lose all my genital hair and, and have a mustache I have to shave every week! I’m going kicking and screaming.”

“Ohhh…kay,” Bill answered, reluctantly, not really sure what words might comfort his usually calm wife or at least the one he had kissed last night as they readied for bed, laughing about the Fran Lebowitz special they had seen. Where had that woman gone?

“I get it. Dylan Thomas would be proud.” Bill slid down the wall that Elizabeth had now propped herself against and sat beside her. 

“No, you don’t get it,” Liz sobbed.

“Well, agreed, but I’m trying. First, help me understand Miss Johnnie arms?” Bill absentmindedly stroked Elizabeth’s arm as he inquired about this reference to his grandmother. Lizzy and Sister (as family members called Miss Johnnie) had not always gotten along. 

Stretching out her arms, palms up, she turned to Bill, presenting her arms : “These!” And with that word she flung her arms in his direction. “They’re no longer my arms. They’re her arms, her mottled, crepe paper textured, used up, seen better days, over the hill, ancient arms. They’re Miss Johnnie’s arms.” And then she fell across the table of his raised legs, arms outstretched, a sacrifice on the altar of age and inevitability.

Patting her bare back, rubbing it gently as she always liked, Bill caressed her with loving words, sincere, comforting expressions meant to calm her, to ease her anxiety. “Lizzie. you are a beautiful woman, the love of my life. I don’t see Miss Johnnie arms. I see an accomplished professional, a successful entrepreneur, a loving mother and wife.”  

Splayed across his knees in a balancing act he wasn’t sure would last much longer, Elizabeth’s heaving sobs made her look like she was in the cat/cow pose she practiced every morning. He wisely decided not to comment on that although he wished he could think of something clever and witty to say that would lighten this moment. And then again, maybe this wasn’t a moment for levity although for the life of him he couldn’t understand her angst and dismay. 

And neither could Elizabeth.

~~~~~

Sunlight powered through the drifting clouds, through the bathroom skylights, around the corner of the bathroom wall into the bedroom and onto the bed where Lizzie’s arms lay outside the bed cover. The first impression of a casual observer would be that she was laid out in a coffin, albeit a very beautiful one. 

Bill looked over at Lizzie, lying ever so still in the bed she called the Giant Marshmallow. No longer did she come to bed naked, her warm body next to his as they both drifted off to sleep each night. A long sleeved, Laurel Burch night shirt over a turtle neck knit top now came between them. The shiny threads that outlined the aqua, blue, and pink cats on the shirt, scratched him ever so slightly, just enough to keep him awake a little longer than necessary. Bill wanted Lizzie’s soft skin next to him, a naked arm slung over his chest—not this mummy wrapped in burial clothes.

The long sleeves of course, kept the Crepe Skin Reducer from soiling the sheets and their duvet cover. That had been such fun, picking out those bed clothes for their new bed, but now he alone could feel their softness as Lizzie had chosen to wrap herself in swaddling clothes, in a body poultice of cream that promised to erase her Miss Johnnie Arms and turkey neck. He wasn’t sure what she was doing about the chin hairs or puppet mouth, but her nightly bathroom routine had now expanded to an hour instead of just 15 minutes.

But wait, that wasn’t all—those words from so many TV commercials popped into his head as his eyes fell upon the Crepe Skin Reducer bottle—front and center on their vanity. Almost every day, Amazon packages showed up with various anti-aging potions for face and neck along with Chico’s, Karen Kane, and LL Bean purchases arriving one after another.  Their recycle bin overflowed with flattened cardboard boxes that once held myriad patterns, textures, and colors of long-sleeved casual sweaters, dressy jackets, smart looking workout tops.

“Lizzie, why do you need new clothes? You have such beautiful ones you bought last year,” he had asked as patiently and softly as he could.

“Yes, but currently these arms demand that I have long-sleeved blouses and sweaters to cover up the crepey skin I’m trying to erase. I just cannot have these Miss Johnnie arms on display,” she had answered with an exasperated, ‘Gee why don’t you get it look.’”.

He had not seen the Miss Johnnie arms since that fateful morning a month ago when they suddenly appeared. No more showers together, no more glimpses of her naked. Oh, yeah, gravity had been at work on her torso; cellulite had taken up residence on her once very nicely shaped legs, but he was no Rock Johnson and never really thought too much about it as he looked down at his arms, splayed out on the duvet, ever so close to Lizzie, but not touching.

~~~~

Sunlight powered through the drifting clouds, through the bathroom skylights, around the corner of the bathroom wall into the bedroom and onto the bed where four arms lay outside the bed cover. The first impression of a casual observer would be that this couple rested in loving peace.

Two pairs of arms lay on top of the snow white duvet. Black sleeves with rivulets of gold thread covered one pair of arms. Gray sleeves  with no adornment covered the other set of more muscular arms—a black sleeved arm entwined with a gray sleeved arm, its hand grasping the other.

Bill looked over at Lizzie, smiled, as he raised their entwined arms, broke the clutch of their hands, and pulled her close to him.

“I’ve missed you, Lizzie, missed you snuggling up to me.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Bill. It’s sweet of you to also wear a T-shirt to bed. I know how you like sleeping sans clothes.” 

Bill would never let Lizzie know that the reason he had decided to don a long-sleeved T-shirt was that he really could not stand the feel of that night shirt against his bare skin.  He wanted Lizzie’s skin. But Lizzie clothed was better than no Lizzie.

However, the odor of Crepe Skin Reducer still clung to Lizzie and that scent did not exactly make for romantic cuddles. Her nighttime wardrobe had expanded to include anti-cellulite compression tights coupled with a nightly dose of anti-cellulite cream, another scented weapon in her anti-aging war. 

He could kick himself for having mentioned that she had cellulite on her legs, an attempt to show her that this onslaught of Miss Johnnie arms was nothing new. 

After all, the cellulite on her legs needed attention also. So naturally she had ordered some new cream for the cellulite-infested legs and the tights. Why did he ever bring up the legs?

“Do you think the Crepe Skin Reducer is working?” Elizabeth asked.

“Well, Lizzie only you can answer that. I haven’t seen your arms, your legs, any part of you for the last four weeks.”

“And you won’t see me until the Miss Johnnie arms go away.”

“Lizzie, I really don’t think that cream is going to work that miracle,” Bill gently suggested.

“And what about your legs? Tell me again what you are using on your legs?”

“Cellulite Vanishing Cream and the leggings. I don’t know. I guess I should have taken before and after photos so I could monitor the improvement.”

“Well maybe, but time to haul ass out of bed and get on with our day,” Bill announced as he threw back the duvet and escaped from the cocoon of creams and clothes.

~~~~

Moonlight streamed through the skylight.The perfume bottles on the vanity acted as prisms, spraying shafts of chartreuse, navy, crimson, and coral onto the ceiling, transforming the vanity area into a planetarium of nightly splendors. The Fountain of Youth jars, in formation and on alert for their next call to action, rested in the lunar spotlight.

“Where is Bill?” Lizzie wondered. Usually he was first in bed waiting for her to fling herself into the Giant Marshmallow, to envelope her in a hug, before cuddling up to him. But cuddle time had been drastically reduced. Now it was a quick peck on the lips, a pat on the butt and a High-o-Silver Away as Bill retreated to his side of the bed.

Much like this morning’s fare-thee-well. She still smarted from his abrupt “haul ass out of bed” comment. No back rub to get her going, no good morning kiss—just up and at ‘em. What a blow to her ego. She so missed the intimacy they once had. Going to bed and waking up were such important parts of their daily routine. Lizzie felt that routine disintegrating, melting away like ice in her Bloody Mary or more recently her just-brewed sun tea. Alcohol was now a no-no.  It encouraged wrinkles, you know.

She longed to once again dive naked into bed with Bill, to shower with him every morning, but she could not let him see her just yet. Miss Johnnie arms had become Miss Johnnie legs—bulging veins, cottage cheese thighs. Where had the real Lizzie gone? Where had this body snatcher come from?

Anxiously, she pulled the turtle neck away from her turkey neck slathered with the magical potion, curious as to what was keeping Bill. Her new leggings kept riding up above her waist, cutting her crotch and irritating her even more. But it was worth it. Soon she wouldn’t have to wear these clothes that kept the trusted creams close to her body but away from bed sheets. They were working. She was sure of it. Well kinda.

She’d do anything to get out of this funk, so she was taking the only steps she knew to erase these signs of aging, of fading away, of not being noticed by men any more, of being called “Sweety” by the store clerks. She abhorred those feelings of “Bless her Heart” when  she had trouble connecting on Zoom meetings. She could feel the vibes from the younger members who must be thinking that you shouldn’t let anyone over 60 near technology. 

She imagined their smirking faces and shaking heads as she kept emailing the Zoom coordinator fervent pleas that her link was not working. Maybe she would not attend that one meeting any more. She was too embarrassed.

Flip-FLOP. Flip-FLOP—pounding thuds thundered through the hall.  Flip-FLOP. Flip-FLOP attacked the silence of the house, caused the hardwood floors to groan. “What on earth?” wondered Lizzie. Flip-FLOP. Flip-FLOP. Lizzie sat up in bed just as a shadowy figure filled the bedroom doorway. Gushes of labored breathing now replaced the steady thuds.

There stood Bill, dressed in his old black and blue wetsuit, a full face black scuba mask obscured his handsome but weathered face. Yellow and black frog fins, the perpetrators of the Flip-FLOP thunder, covered his feet and camel colored motorcycle gloves made his hands look as though they belonged to Sasquatch.

“Hi Babe, Sorry it took me so long. I had a lot to do before I came to bed.” Bill hardly sounded like himself as the mouthpiece extruded his words from the mask.

“Bill?” 

“Yeah, Babe,” Bill answered as he lurched toward the Giant Marshmallow, awkwardly reached to turn the bed side lamp on, briefly balancing himself on the bedside table, and then gratefully plopped down on the bed.

Liz hastily scurried over to his side, her bare feet dangling alongside his finned feet.

“Bill, you scared me to death. Why are you wearing your diving gear?”

“Well, it took me a while to figure out what I needed for my anti-aging regime. I can’t have you looking too much nicer than me.  So it seemed reasonable that the frog fins would be just right to cover my fungus riddled toe nails.”

“Wouldn’t socks work just as well?” Lizzie just could not believe that he’d sleep in those monstrosities.

“Not really, Liz. The Vick’s Vapo Rub, absolutely essential to kill the fungus, would be smeared all over the sheets. The wet suit keeps my (and your) anti-aging creams in close contact with my wrinkles, but it also helps hydrate. You know how important hydration is for our aging skin.”

“But Bill. This mask? Surely to goodness you don’t intend to sleep in that thing?”

“Why not? I’m thinking because it fits so tightly on my face, it will smooth out the wrinkles and keep all the contaminates off my face. You know they cause aging also. All those little particulates can etch away at my complexion. Maybe that is something you should try too. Don’t you still have your scuba gear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sunlight powered through the drifting clouds, through the bathroom skylights where errant rays illuminated the gold thread outlining the aqua, blue and pinks cats of a rumpled night shirt that lay on the marble floor. On top rested a black turtle neck turned inside out where white creamy streaks darted across its interior. Discarded grey leggings straddled the lump of crumpled, abandoned clothing. 

To the right of this pile, lay a wetsuit, neatly set aside with frog fins carefully placed on top of the black and blue wetsuit. A scuba mask crowned the totem of diving gear.

Continuing around the corner into the bedroom and onto the bed, sunlight bathed Lizzie in its warmth. She lay in the middle of the white duvet—eyes closed, more gray than blonde hair spread on to white pillows, bare arms above her head, naked legs slightly apart, white towel wrapped around her torso. Her toes polished with “15 Minutes of Flame” broke the monochromatic decor. The first impression of a casual observer would be that she was adrift in a sea of white foam, slowly sinking into its billows, half a knee submerged here, half an elbow there, strands of hair hidden by the lapping waves of cotton and down. 

She turned towards Bill, spread out almost to the edge of the bed. A white towel covered his aging, freckled, and liver-spotted body. The spongy viscosity of the Giant Marshmallow held him close but gently so.

The goose down top kept them both buoyant, safe from being suffocated. A line from an old hymn about ”sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore” came to mind as Lizzie lay there. What was the name of that song? “Love Lifted Me”.  Yes, it did she thought as a smile slipped into her heart.

Slowly she reached her arms to the ceiling for her “Good Morning” stretch. The kaleidoscope of wrinkled skin invited a closer look and then an even closer one.  Lowering her arms, her gaze shifted to the vanity, the sun drenched potion bottles, and back again to Bill and back again to Miss Johnnie arms.  Maybe she should…