Don David

At least once a year, Renée and I visit our son, Joel, and his wife Liseth, and the extended Tapasco family in Colombia, South America. Here, I am frequently called “Don David” (pronounced Dōn Da-véed). This is a title of respect. In English, one might say “Sir David,” or perhaps “Mister David.” Here at the Montezuma Rainforest Ecolodge on the edge of Parque Nacional Natural Tatamá, I take second place in age. Abuela Tapasco has more than 20 years on me, and in my mind, she is in a totally different category. But the term Don David is a clear indication that I am in a senior category to all the young adults here. And this year, with my gimpy, swollen knee and some special dietary restrictions, I feel like a high-maintenance liability rather than an asset. I am particularly reminded of my aging process and the gap between what I am and what I used to be.

I am accustomed to being productive, at least useful, during our visits. Last year, I helped rechannel a stream that threatened to undercut a house. In the process, I moved what seemed to be a ton of large boulders while standing knee deep in the swift current. I also took down large, tall stands of exotic and invasive “elephant grass” around the property with my swinging machete, and dug out a rectangle full of rocks and roots with pick and shovel for a place to build a greenhouse. This year, I sit on the patio drinking coffee and watching colorful birds while I read, write, and draw, and dread the process of descending a steep trail or even a simple flight of stairs. I feel accomplished to wash a few dishes or to keep the ceramic drip water filter full. I walk into the kitchen and see Oscar combine parts from two broken Oster electric blenders to make one that works. I hold the flashlight.

I literally feel the pull, the temptation of ease, to drop my guard and slide down the slippery slope of no return. I have witnessed this process in other “old folks” who experience an injury, like a broken hip or leg, and allow it to limit their activity which then leads to further health issues which compound and culminate with premature death, or worse yet, years of debilitated existence in a “long term care facility.” I admit that a bum knee is insignificant compared to a broken hip, and yet I feel the pull of gravity and just beneath my feet I see the greasy slope down to the grave.

Perhaps I exaggerate. Maybe I am overreacting. However, I feel my mobility is severely restricted, especially when I need a stick, used as a cane, to hobble down steps one at a time. I am excluded from adventurous treks that Joel leads along steep jungle trails, as well as most other hikes that contain gradients. My wife returns from these expeditions and I must be content to see her photos of all the wonders beyond my contracted world. Even my simple walks on flat terrain are slow. Seven years ago I climbed Longs Peak at 14,259 feet elevation and ran a 46-minute 10K foot race in Boulder, Colorado (5400 feet elevation). The fact that those days are long gone is becoming a stark reality.

Although the median age in the United States has been steadily increasing (now approaching 40), at 64 years old, I am clearly in one of the upper quartiles. Most people I deal with now are much younger than I. This seems strange when I recall my first job in a power plant in 1980. Although I was on the verge of 21 years old, many said I looked to be 16 or 17. The term of endearment directed toward me back then was “Wonder Boy.” These days, the situation has reversed. Crews at the power plants now are nearly all younger than I, and they are in the habit of calling me Mister Such — yes, even my boss.

A couple days ago I woke up on my 64th birthday to a cool and cloudy morning here in the rain forest beneath Cerró Tatamá in the Western Andes. I swing my legs out of bed, examine my swollen knee, and count 59 days before my scheduled kneecap replacement surgery. It seems a sacrilege to put hope in a medical procedure, and yet, what can I say? When I realize today is my 64th birthday, I immediately feel the downward pull. My joint creaks and pops as I stand, yet I muster hope from somewhere. I feel a twinge of optimism, but not enough to leave behind my elastic knee brace and walking stick. With a limp that I try to conceal, I stroll down the rocky path to find my place on the lodge’s spacious patio.

So, am I okay being called Mister Such or Don David? Yes, I wear those names with honor. However, I must also allow them to inform my self-perception and to guide me into the type of old man I would like to be: fit, or at least functional, and with enough wisdom to bear any inevitable infirmities with patience and grace, and perhaps a touch of humor. And I dare not entertain the fantasy that the decline and death of my physical body will be the end of the world — or the end of me. And so I press onward, as we all must do, despite external or internal problems. Some may call this the “indomitable human spirit,” but it is merely resolve inspired by hope from above as I limp out of Babylon toward the promised land.